


And I Keep Waiting

by SurelyMeretricious



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Comfort, Crime Scenes, Drunk John, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Mild BDSM, Multi, PWP, Pining, Restless Sherlock, Swingers, Virgin Sherlock, cases, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 53,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SurelyMeretricious/pseuds/SurelyMeretricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock were only friends.  Only until John begins to notice other feelings.  Sherlock seems oblivious to John's affections, but when Sherlock demands they pose as a couple for a case, will feelings get in the way of their friendship?  Will John be able to keep it to himself for the case, or is it possible that Sherlock returns the sentiment?  Also, sexy times.  FOR A CASE (?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Upon This Winter Night with You

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to imdressinuplikeacat for being my Beta and reading this over and over. You are infinitely patient with me and my weird stories.  
> This started off as a neat dream I had and took on a life of its own.  
> I hope you enjoy and please leave feedback if you like!  
> I will be posting chapters as soon as I am satisfied with them enough.

    John’s breath rose about him like a thick fog.  It certainly had gotten colder since he’d left the pub.  He’d been out having drinks with Mike Stamford again.  Mike was a lovely chap, but John wasn’t really sure that he truly craved the normalcy Mike represented anymore.  Still, he knew he would continue their friendship, as Mike was one of the few people on the planet who understood how Sherlock was.

    But that wasn’t true.  Not even John really understood Sherlock and they’d been flatmates for quite a while now.  Sherlock had known everything about John in a single glance, yet John had to spend months and months of study to be rewarded with a mere glimpse into the enigma that was his colleague. _Perhaps Sherlock really was an alien..._

    John chuckled a little and shrugged this silly notion aside as he shivered again in the cold.  Digging his hands into his pockets, he quickened his pace towards Baker Street.  Next time, he was definitely going to get a cab.  Riding in a cab alone had made him a bit wary ever since Sherlock’s run-in with a certain homicidal cabbie back when he and Sherlock had first met.

    John muttered a curse under his breath as 221B came into his sight.  The light was still on.   _Shit_.  Which meant Sherlock was awake.   _Still_.  John braced himself and rushed to the door.  He was starting to sober up- not really the state he wanted to be in for another inevitable row with his favourite consulting detective (still the only one in the world).  

    John had barely gotten through the door when he was rushed by Mrs. Hudson.  She opened her mouth to speak but John quickly cut her off.  “Yes, yes, Mrs. Hudson.  I’m going up to handle it now.  Please try and get some sleep.”

    “Oh, thank you, dear," she sighed in relief.

    John saw that she was back in her flat, then turned towards the stairs.  He exhaled sharply as he took them two at a time. _Might as well get this over with_ , he thought.  John already knew what had distressed Mrs. Hudson.  The banshee screech of Sherlock’s violin could be clearly heard from the bottom of the stairs.  John’s head was now pounding and he wanted nothing more at that moment than to make it stop.  He threw open the door and stared daggers at Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, who at that moment was abusing his violin most horribly as he did a sort of waltz around the room.

    “Sherlock!” John shouted, trying to make himself heard above the infernal klaxon.  Immediately the din ceased and Sherlock glanced at him with a faint smile full of boyish charm.  

    “Ah!  Did you finally decide to return with the tea I asked for?”

    John felt his jaw lock and his brow furrow.  The more he was around Sherlock the more he felt this was his natural state.  Sherlock gave him a look of sweet condescension that reminded John of every teacher he ever hated.  

    “Sherlock, I’ve been _out_.”  John gestured wildly to the coat he animatedly shrugged off.

    Sherlock squinted at him for a half second before moving to set his violin on the armchair.  Brandishing his bow like a sabre he began speaking rapidly.

    “Yes, I can see that.  I can see by the damp in your hair and clothes and shoes that you walked home.  Judging by the approximate rate of accumulation outside and the volume upon your person I can tell you walked for at least fifteen minutes, though no more than eighteen.  With your inebriated pace I can then formulate a radius which I can combine with my knowledge of the pubs you normally frequent to say that you were at the Lord High Admiral on Penfold Street.”

    “Sherlock-” John sighed, exasperated.

    “Most likely with Mike Stamford.  Am I wrong?”

    John put his head in his hands.  He would never understand the mind of the man before him.  He was so clinical, so technical.  He seemed to be made more from gears and gadgets than flesh and blood.  Pity he didn’t _actually_ come with an off-switch.  

    John turned without answering his _clearly_ deranged flatmate and padded his way to the kitchen.  Sherlock was instantly on his heels, muttering quickly about something.  Ignoring him, John grabbed a clean glass from the cupboard.  He shoved aside something that was either from dinner a week ago or another one of Sherlock’s experiments.  Although deep down he knew it was pointless, John felt he _really_ needed to get on him about cleaning up after himself.  John ran scenarios of this potential conversation though his head while Sherlock rambled on.  The army doctor brushed past his friend to get to the fridge.  A nice glass of milk would make him feel a bit better.  

    Unfortunately, upon opening the fridge the first thing his eyes locked onto was a human hand in a jar.  Normal people would have probably freaked out over something like this, but living with Sherlock built up certain immunities.  He just wanted to have a glass of milk and go to bed.  Except, as usual, there was _no bloody milk in the fridge_.  John’s eyes desperately searched the shelf contents one last time, not wanting to believe what he already knew.  He angrily attempted to slam the refrigerator door.  However, as there was a strong sealing strip preventing this, John’s anger did not have a proper venting.  To rectify this he took his glass, which it seemed would **never** hold milk, and threw it against the wall opposite.  The deafening crash of shattering glass made him feel only a tiny bit better.  

    Silence followed.  Even Sherlock had stopped speaking.  After a moment of mild embarrassment, John turned to face Sherlock.  Despite this type of behaviour being highly unusual for him, John expected nothing to have registered on Sherlock’s remarkably placid face.  John had his occasional outbursts, but he only saw Sherlock out of sorts when he was itching for a case.  The one exception was after Sherlock thought he had seen a giant hound at Baskerville.  Other than that he seemed almost incapable of human emotion.  So John was surprised to see a flicker of something pass over his friend’s face.   _Was that the faintest shadow of sadness?_  John did not have time to dwell on this, because the moment passed as quickly as it had come.  Perhaps John was a bit drunker than he initially thought he was.  

    Sherlock didn’t speak.  He stood before John, holding his gaze with pursed lips and hands stiffly on his hips.  John took a few deep breaths to calm himself.  When he felt his voice would be even again, he said, “Sherlock.  You need to go to bed.”

    “John-” Sherlock interjected.

    “No.  I don’t care what you’re working on right now.  It can- _no_ \- it **will** wait until the morning.  You haven’t slept in days.   _Days_ , okay?”

    “But!” Sherlock declared.

    John could feel anger boiling once more.  Instead of shouting again he clenched his teeth and stared hard up at Sherlock, whose mouth moved though no sound came out.  Eventually he seemed to give up and remained quiet.  John took the opportunity to jab his finger in the direction of the bedroom.  Sherlock huffed once quite loudly but he complied.  John remained motionless until he heard the bedroom door slam.  

    Slowly, stiffly, he leaned over and began picking up the shards of broken glass as he muttered, “Just a bloody child sometimes.  You would think a grown man of his age...”  John continued to mumble curses under his breath as he cleaned.  He was so involved in his work that he didn’t hear Sherlock come back into the kitchen.  

    Sherlock decided to alert John of his presence by loudly clearing his throat.  This surprised the smaller man perhaps more than it should have and he promptly cut his hand on a piece of glass.  

    “Fuck! OW!” John yelped.

    Instantly Sherlock was at his side, grabbing at John’s hand to examine the wound.  John momentarily forgot his anger and pain.  They were replaced suddenly with concern over Sherlock’s safety.

    “Careful, Sherlock.  There’s broken glass down here,” John slurred.  

    “Very astute observation, Doctor Watson.  I could offer you the same warning.”  Sherlock helped his blogger up and dragged him by the wrist over to the sink where he began to run freezing water over the gash.  At first John winced a bit, but relaxed as he let Sherlock take over.  Seeing him like this was a rare sight and he was too tired to ruin the moment.  John watched Sherlock’s face.  Holmes was completely absorbed in the task at hand.  John laughed to himself as this thought crossed his mind.

    “Hand.  Get it?” John giggled.  Either this was him recovering from mild shock or he was still quite intoxicated.  Sherlock glanced at him in confusion for a moment before he decided to just let it pass unquestioned.

    After Sherlock was satisfied with how he had cleaned the wound he declared, “Well you certainly won’t bleed to death.”  

 _Was that a wistful smile that flickered across Sherlock’s face?_ John wondered.  John’s hand felt numb as Sherlock shut off the water and rushed towards the bathroom for what John hoped were bandages.  John elevated his hand and wandered into the sitting room, waiting for his hyperactive nursemaid to return.  

    When Sherlock came back he gestured for John to sit in his armchair.  John did as he was asked and Sherlock gingerly began to wrap his hand.  Neither of them spoke.  It seemed to John that Sherlock was apologising in his own way for being such a noisy nuisance before.

    Sherlock held John’s carefully bandaged hand between his larger ones after he had finished.  Enough time had passed that John began to feel a bit awkward and his mouth fell open in puzzlement.  Sherlock noticed this and quickly but gently he patted John’s hand before letting go and moving away.  John felt his skin go cold as Sherlock’s warmth left it.  It still throbbed.  Suddenly, Sherlock was in front of him again.  This time he had ibuprofen and a small glass of water.

    “Here.  Take these and do try not to throw the glass when you are finished with it.  We don’t need you cutting yourself again.  One injury per night is the quota and you, sir, have filled it.”

    John couldn’t help but laugh. _Aren't I_ _supposed to be the doctor here?_

    “Sherlock, listen.  About earlier.  I was just-” John began.

    Sherlock waved away his apology.  “No need, John.”

    “Right...well.  Please get some rest, Sherlock.”

    The detective took one more long look at John and shuffled to the bedroom.  John breathed a sigh of relief as the door gently clicked shut.  

    The exhausted soldier laid his head back and soaked in the sound of silence.  He didn’t have much time to enjoy this repose. Before long, John heard Sherlock’s bed springs creak from down the hall.  Sherlock was restless.   _Big surprise there_ , John thought.  A low groan penetrated the bedroom door and reached John’s all-too-alert ears.  He exhaled sharply and resigned himself to the fact that he probably wouldn’t get any sleep in the near future, despite his growing need for it.  John knew that if Sherlock didn’t sleep soon he would start hallucinating, or worse, so John set his own needs aside to tend to his infuriating flatmate, as was his nature.  

    The muffled noises had not ceased by the time John reached the bedroom door so he rapped his knuckles on the wood before opening it.  

    “Are you okay?” John asked as he stepped into the Stygian room.

    “John, I can’t sleep,” groaned Sherlock.  His words were stifled by the fact that his face was half smothered into his pillow.   His dark wreath of cherub-like curls contrasted so sharply with the white pillow that he was easy to spot, despite the lack of illumination.  John rubbed the back of his neck with his uninjured hand, the other resting lightly on the doorknob.  

    “Would you like me to stay with you until you’ve fallen asleep?  Or I could go get your skull if you’d prefer that,” he suggested, trying to ease the tension from earlier.

    Sherlock rolled over so he could see John clearly in the light from the hallway.  “I suppose you could stay.  I mean, if you think it’ll help.  You’re the one with a medical license.”

    John stood there for a moment, unsure of what his next step should be.  “Okay,” he said as he kicked off his shoes and sat on the edge of the bed.  Sherlock moved over, giving John ample room.  John experienced a moment of confused panic.   _Would Sherlock misinterpret this gesture?  Would he think it meant more than just one friend trying to help another?_ Did it _mean more than that?_  John decided he was too tired to care anymore so he lay down on top of the sheets.  He crossed his ankles and wrapped his arms around himself.  It was a bit cold in this back room.  Before he could say anything Sherlock had already thrown half of his thick duvet over John, who felt instantly drowsy as he was enveloped in a warm cocoon.  He felt as though his visit to the pub earlier that night had been years in the past.  But then, being around Sherlock tended to have that effect on him.  He kept such an irregular schedule that John occasionally felt as if he were living in some sort of vacuum where time was a figment of the imagination.  Indeed, Sherlock seemed to only measure the minutes by increments of boredom or activity.  

    John could tell Sherlock was still awake so he asked, “Why can’t you sleep, Sherlock?”

    Silence hung heavy in the air for nearly a full minute.  Facing away from John, Sherlock muttered, “You know why, John.  I can’t rest until this case is solved.  It’s most intriguing.  Something doesn’t seem quite right.  I just can’t seem to work it all out and it’s tearing me apart.”

    “I know, Sherlock.  I know.”  John regretted saying anything.  He had probably made things worse by getting him all riled up again.  “Sherlock,” he continued, seeking to soothe his agitated friend.  “Perhaps getting some rest will let you tackle this case in a whole new light.”

    “Please, John.  I highly doubt a REM cycle will accomplish anything of the sort,” he quipped in response.

    “You won’t know until you try.  Consider it an experiment.  You _love_ those.”  With a smirk John closed his eyes and settled himself in.  He was asleep almost instantly.

 


	2. Safe and Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a nightmare. Luckily Sherlock is there.  
> John's thoughts start drifting into dangerous territory, and his hangover and Sherlock's actions aren't helping...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to imdressinuplikeacat for being my tireless Beta.  
> And thank you to winifredweatherbee and namara-ashina for being some of the most supportive and sweet followers that one could possibly ask for!

    John was awakened suddenly by large hands roughly shaking him.  

    “John, it’s all right now.  You’re all right,” he heard someone say.

    He felt disoriented.  Moments before, he had been back in Afghanistan.  He still heard the echoes of explosions and live rounds.  He tasted the sand in his paper-dry mouth and felt the sun burning his exposed flesh.  He blinked away these memories, forced himself to remember they were _only memories_.  The sensations began to fade- all except for the tears and the blood.  He felt tears cool his cheeks as they snaked their way to his earlobes before darkening his pillow.  His hand throbbed and he smelt the blood from his gash.  

    “John?” Sherlock’s baritone broke the sound of John’s struggled breathing.

    All he managed in reply was a weak hum.

    Sherlock bit his lower lip before he ventured forward.  “John, you were having a bad dream.  It was just a dream.  You’re safe now.”

    John let go of the air he had held in his lungs in an attempt to calm himself.  His shaky breaths became slower and deeper as he willed his heart to stop racing like an out-of-control locomotive.  When he thought he was steady enough, he spoke again and his voice only quivered slightly.  “Thank you, Sherlock.  Sorry.  I have nightmares sometimes.  Flashbacks.  I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

    “Afghanistan,” Sherlock stated.

    “Yes.”

    “Do you...need to talk about it?” he began awkwardly.  Feelings were definitely not Sherlock’s area of expertise.

    “Uh...not really.  Sorry.”  John stopped himself from giggling uncomfortably at the sudden mental image of Sherlock filling in for his therapist one day.  He imagined Sherlock sitting with legs crossed in an overstuffed chair, his fingers steepled before his face and a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose.  John thought that Sherlock would make a terrible therapist.  He would argue with the validity of “feelings” and tell everyone all of their flaws in mere seconds.  He would be hopeless at running such a business profitably.  

    John snapped back to reality, where Sherlock was not sitting in a chair but was lying on the bed at John’s side.  Sherlock’s hands were not together in his standard “thinking” pose, they were on John.  Suddenly their warmth burned through him and his cheeks flushed a little in embarrassment.  John felt confused by his body’s reaction.  After all, this was only Sherlock, right?  Sherlock had touched him before. _But not like this._  John tried to push these thoughts from his mind.  

    Sherlock’s grip tightened a little on John’s far shoulder; the span of his hand covered nearly its entirety.  His thumb rubbed back and forth over John’s cotton-covered  clavicle.  

    “You don’t have to keep apologising, John.  It’s okay.  This isn’t... It’s not the first time I’ve seen you like this.”

    John was so focused on the fact that Sherlock was touching him that he almost missed the implications of Sherlock’s statement.  

    “Hold on,” he stammered.  “What do you mean this isn’t the first time?”

    “You used to have nightmares a lot, when you first moved in.  They have since decreased exponentially in regularity.”  

    John found himself at a loss for words.  He knew that Sherlock noticed everything, but his nightmares seemed so personal, so private, that he couldn’t understand how Sherlock knew about them.  Sherlock answered his question without him having to ask.

    “I heard you, the first time.  You were sort of whimpering.  I had been awake, thinking, and you sounded so distressed that I ran up to see what was the matter.  I saw that you were having a nightmare and I deduced quite easily that it was from your PTSD.  I didn’t want to wake you, fearing that I might startle you more, so I ran downstairs and began-”

    “Playing the violin,” John finished for him.  “I remember.”

    “Ever since then, I have checked in on you, every time you were having a bad dream.  Then I would leave your room and do something to wake you up.”

    This new knowledge crashed over John.  The gestures seemed so... _caring_.  John supposed that he could not deny that Sherlock had always looked out for his best interests, even when John himself didn’t know it at the time.  But this seemed to move beyond just helping someone out.   _Why had he kept it a secret?_

    John stared hard at Sherlock in the dark, trying to suss out secrets from his unyielding face.  John’s mouth turned down at the corners as he gave up.  It was no use trying to crawl inside Sherlock’s mind.  He had the best poker-face John had ever seen on anyone alive.  Sherlock, who had been holding John’s gaze, looked away suddenly.  John fought back a sudden urge to touch Sherlock, to force the man to face him again.  

    “You should get some sleep, John,” Sherlock whispered to the dark void around them.  Sherlock released him and rolled away.  John felt the gulf between them swell.  He wished he knew of a way to reach this insufferably distant and closed-off genius.  Then John did something he never thought he’d do.  He reached out his hand and laid it on the center of Sherlock’s back.  The detective tensed at the contact, but relaxed into it almost immediately.  Encouraged, John scooted closer behind Sherlock and pressed his forehead gently between his shoulder blades.  

    Sherlock had been there for him, every time.  All John wanted was to return the favour in any way that he could.  Having remembered Sherlock’s previously agitated state, he murmured, “I’m sorry that I woke you up.  Please get some rest, Sherlock. We can talk about the case in the morning.”

    John felt Sherlock nod his head and he smiled weakly.  John stayed awake, waiting to hear Sherlock’s breathing slow.  His mind was entirely focused on the tiny patches of his skin that were tethered to Sherlock’s body.  His chest felt tight.   _Why does Sherlock make me feel this way?_  John was confused, and not for the first time.  

    John tried to think of something else, anything else.  

_Lestrade will likely call first thing in the morning._

_I will need to try and eat something, if I’m not too hungover._

_Sherlock’s hair looks unbelievably soft._

_Dammit._

_Um... I’ll need to do the laundry again soon._

_Maybe after this case I can sit down and actually watch a match._

_I could watch a match with Sherlock._

_Sherlock could sit close and..._

_Shit.  Not good territory.  Straight.  I’m straight.  I like women.  I like... lips._

_Sherlock has beautiful lips._

_Eyes.  Sherlock has the most amazing eyes._

_His eyes...._

    Not able to fight sleep any longer, John drifted off, thinking of things he didn’t want to think about.  Things he would have to worry about later.

*******

    The next time John awoke his first thought was _burning_.  He was incredibly warm.  He and Sherlock had radiated enough body heat between them to fry an egg.  John’s next thought was _bright_.  The sun shone into the room, blinding him.  His head pounded.  Slowly, the specifics of the night before came flooding back.  He needed to drink about a _million_ glasses of water and then check his wound.  The skin around the edges of his cut already felt tight and were beginning to itch.  John threw the blanket off of himself and sat up quickly.  Too quickly.  He made it to the toilet just in time to be sick.  When he was sure he was finished, he pushed the handle to flush and laid his head down on his forearm, groaning.  

    Just then he felt a hand gently smooth over his back.  John hadn’t even heard Sherlock approach.  John was embarrassed that Sherlock had to see him in such a sorry state, but he felt too ill to protest.  Sherlock didn’t say anything, he just rubbed John’s back and hummed soothingly.  Eventually, John felt it was safe to stand again.  This time he moved slowly, cautiously.   He went to the sink first, rinsing out his mouth and then splashing cool water on his face.  He looked in the mirror at Sherlock who stood behind him.  The dark-haired reflection intently regarded John, looking slightly concerned.  

    John laughed weakly and said, “Well, I’m certainly never drinking _that much_ ever again.”

    Sherlock flashed a sympathetic smile at him.  “I’ll make you some tea.  We’ll have to change that bandage too.  You’ve gotten it all wet.”

    “Cheers,” John called after the taller man as he vanished into the next room.

 _Everything’s fine.  Everything’s normal._  John repeated this mantra in his head until even he almost believed it.  

    John steadily made his way into their sitting room and flopped down onto the sofa.  As he waited for the kettle to boil, he watched Sherlock across the room.  Sherlock studiously examined the wall, which was covered in photographs and notes- one of his methods to find clarity when a case was proving difficult.  John looked at the wall for a moment as well, but his eyes were quickly drawn to Sherlock’s hips, which minutely swayed back and forth.  He had the sudden urge to grasp Sherlock’s hips and hold him steady.  John licked his lips and cleared his throat.  

    “So,” John began, forcing himself to look away from Sherlock.  

    “Not now, John.  I’m thinking.”

    Even though John hadn’t expected anything else to come from Sherlock’s lips, his words stung.  He felt the tightness in his chest again.  

    “Fine I’ll just change my bandage myself.  No worries.  I’m sure it will be incredibly easy, what with me only having one hand to do it with.  No, don’t let me trouble you.”  John was being snarky and he knew it, but he wanted Sherlock to know that he was upset with him.  

    John waited a moment but garnered no response from Sherlock, whose hips continued to sway in a manner that began to infuriate John.  With no other option, John got up slowly and moved to get a fresh bandage from the first-aid kit in the bathroom.  

 _Bloody git_ , John thought to himself.  When he returned, Sherlock still hadn’t moved away from his collage of data.

    The kettle whistled impatiently, which caused John to moan in frustration.  He wanted to go back to sleep and try starting the day over again.  After setting the first-aid kit down on the coffee table, he went into the kitchen to stop the high-pitched sound before his head exploded.  Grateful that his dominant hand was the one he hadn’t injured, John quickly made himself a cup of tea.   _Sherlock can get his own bloody tea_ , John thought triumphantly.  

    John decided to finish his tea in the kitchen.  He was afraid that if he saw Sherlock again before getting his emotions under control, he would say something regretful.  Or worse, he would say something that made him sound needy.

    Feeling much better after a few minutes of tea-meditation, John went back into the sitting room to re-bandage his hand.  Just as he thought, Sherlock hadn’t moved away from the wall.  

    John proved to be very unsuccessful in dressing his wound one-handed.  He had managed to clean it well enough, glad to see that it had already begun to heal nicely.  Sherlock had done a decent job.  Wrapping his hand back up tightly, however, was a difficult task to get started.  He tried bracing the back of his hand on his thigh, but it still wasn’t tight enough.  He groaned loudly for the fifth time then heard a tsch! noise come from Sherlock’s throat.  Sherlock pounced across the room to get to John’s side, stepping over furniture and other obstacles as he usually did.

    “Just give it here,” Sherlock growled.

    “No, it’s fine, Sherlock.  I’ll manage.”  John did not want to let him win that easily.

    Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his lips pursing into a thin line.   _Oh, shit,_ John thought. _Now I’m_ really _in trouble_.

    “Fine, here.”  John caved and held out his hand, rolling his eyes as he did so.  Sherlock gently but firmly rewrapped his hand.  When he was finished he let go of it unceremoniously.  

    “Thank you, Sherlock,” John whispered.  

    Sherlock didn’t reply.  He stood upright stiffly and huffed.  John was about to shout that Sherlock could at least show _some_ manners, but never got the chance.  Their almost-altercation was cut short by the sound of Sherlock’s mobile.  

    Sherlock had the phone out of his dressing gown pocket and to his ear in a flash.  “Lestrade, what is it?”

    John was silent as Sherlock listened to the reply.  As he waited he watched Sherlock’s facial expressions closely, hoping for some hint as to how the case was going.  From what he could suss out, it didn’t seem very good.

    “Right, we’ll be there momentarily.  No need.  We’ll take a cab.”

    “We?” John replied.

    “Don’t be daft, John.  I need you.  Besides, all you were going to do is lounge around the flat all day feeling miserable.  At least this way you get to have some fun.”

 _I need you_ , John repeated in his head.  John could never refuse the man anything, especially when he said those magic words.  

    Face flushed, John got up from the sofa and began putting his coat on.  Before he could finish, Sherlock was already dressed and getting his own coat on.   _Where does he get all that energy?_ John wondered, smiling a bit to himself.  As they headed out of the flat together, he couldn’t help but think yet again,   _Well, at least I'm never bored._

 


	3. A Change in the Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and a very cold, frustrated, and increasingly smitten John attend a minor crime scene. Feels ensue.

    John shivered, feeling more and more nauseated by the minute.  He realized, too late, that he really should have eaten dry toast before leaving the flat.  He quickly felt almost too sick to eat anything.  Luckily the cold distracted him enough to keep his mind more or less on things other than his stomach.  

    Sherlock was only a few feet away, fully immersed in his work.  Detective Inspector Lestrade stood next to John.  He watched Sherlock with his jaw hanging open, waiting for Sherlock to do the heavy lifting for him.  John wondered if Greg knew that standing around slack-jawed was probably the reason Sherlock sometimes said he was useless.  John didn’t want to say anything because he realized he probably wasn’t much better.  After all, he was the one who always followed Sherlock around and praised his every action.

    Sherlock solved the crime- _Amazing!_

    Sherlock knew where he had been all day with a glance- _Brilliant!_

    Sherlock found his matching sock- _Fantastic!_

    John felt a little pathetic, but it was impossible not to be in awe of Sherlock.  The man was unlike anyone John had ever met.  John thought he was a bit of a mad genius in his own way.  This thought seemed to be confirmed by the fact that Sherlock was unceremoniously crouched down in the snow over a dead body on his hands and knees.  

    “Sherlock, are you _smelling_ the victim?” Lestrade asked.

    When he received no answer Greg turned to John for one.  John merely shook his head as if to say, “What else _would_ he be doing?”

    “John,” Sherlock snapped.  John’s attention returned to Sherlock immediately.  Sherlock leaned back on his heels and steepled his long fingers under his chin.  When John didn’t move, Sherlock widened his eyes and pointed to the body.  John took the hint and moved over to crouch opposite him.  Sherlock’s eyelids lowered to slits as he focused his attention to John’s face.  John tried to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks.  He hoped Sherlock would chalk up his colouring to the frigid wind.  

    “What, Sherlock?” he asked, already knowing what the younger man wanted.

    “Well?  What can you deduce?  It’s fine, this one is easy.”  Sherlock smiled almost imperceptibly at John’s frown.  

    “Fine, ugh.  Female.  Early to mid-twenties, I’d say.  Well dressed,” John began.  He started focusing on the victim’s body. What had Sherlock seen that he wanted John to point out? John always hated when Sherlock put him on the spot like that.  John felt as if he were being paraded around, the mere mortal to serve as a foil to the clever detective.  When he looked at Sherlock, however, he wasn’t mocking.  He stared at John and nodded his head a little.

    “Yes, yes.  Obvious.  And?” Sherlock prodded.

    John took a deep breath, and shivered.  Then he continued, “Well dressed so she probably came from a well-to-do family? Nails are done, though her hair is a right mess.”  John looked closer at the woman’s face.  She was attractive.  He stared at her lips.  Her very blue lips.  “She’s been out here for a few hours I’d say.  Bit early for the work commute.  She’s... not wearing any makeup,” John realized.

    “Good, yes.”

    “There’s no apparent cause of death.  No visible wounds, no blunt force trauma to the back of the head.  There’s no blood.”

    Sherlock started to grow impatient.

    “I don’t know Sherlock.  She... wasn’t choked.  There’s no marks.”

    John felt miserable.  Sherlock seemed determined to make him suffer.  He was freezing his ass off and he wanted nothing more at that moment then to punch Sherlock’s ridiculously perfect face and walk away.  It was too early to be this close to a dead person.  Then John thought back to a few minutes before.   _Close_.  Sherlock had gotten awfully close to the victim’s body. On a hunch, John leaned over and took a huge whiff.  He regretted it instantly.  A strong smell hit him and he gagged, leaning away so quickly he fell.  

    Sherlock smiled, knowing that John had finally figured it out.

    The tall detective stood, swirled his coat majestically, and turned to Lestrade.  In a bold voice he said, “She was drowned.”

    Lestrade looked shocked.  “My God.  Drowned?  How?  Did they shovel snow down her throat?” he mocked disbelievingly.  

    “Don’t be an idiot.  She was drowned in a pool.  Early morning, going for her regular swim.  Early enough that there was probably no one else there.  How convenient, to be killed without any witnesses.  She was drowned, dressed, and her killer brought her here, where she couldn’t carry her anymore.  She was thrown into the snowbank, where she was discovered hours later by a man walking his dog.”  

    “My God, how?” Lestrade bumbled.

    Sherlock huffed, the breath like a mist around his face.  “She is well-dressed but not wearing makeup.  Clearly not on her way to work.  Besides, she’s been dead too long.  She smells distinctly of chlorine.  I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed.  So, swimmer.  Clearly not swimming outdoors this time of year so, pool.  Routine, it seems, by her physique.  She was drowned. She’s clearly not at the bottom of said pool, so murdered.  After she was dead her killer dressed her, and dragged her out here.  A woman seen half-carrying another unconscious woman around rouses less suspicion than a man would, so more likely her killer was female.  If she was seen by anyone she probably said she was taking her drunk friend home after a long night of partying.  No one would think twice about that, judging from the look of her.  She found a good snowbank, and ditched her.  You’re looking for a young woman, close to her build.  Someone that knew her routine well.  Someone present, someone that would have had special access to the pool.  Easy: Lifeguard.”

    “Amazing,” John breathed.

    Sherlock beamed at him and John saw stars.  Walking around the body, Sherlock held out a hand and helped the smaller man up.  John brushed the snow off his backside and looked back at Sherlock’s face.  He couldn’t seem to stop looking at him. Sherlock glanced away quickly.

    “Lestrade, please don’t waste my time on drivel such as this.  I’ve got more important things on right now.”  Sherlock briskly began walking away.  “Come along, John,” he called behind him.  

    John caught up to Sherlock as he was hailing a cab.  “That was brilliant, Sherlock.  How did you know about the man and his dog?  Did one of the detectives tell you?”

    “There were fresh footprints, had to be a man’s.  Older man’s judging from the shuffling.  And the fact that he was wearing slippers.  And the dog I knew because of the little tracks, not to mention the fairly fresh area of yellow snow that you happened to sit in.”  

    John rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Ugh, no.  You could have warned me, Sherlock.”

    Sherlock laughed and winked as a cab finally pulled up.  

    Without preamble, Sherlock whipped his scarf from around his neck and wrapped it around John’s.  “You should have just said you were too cold,” John heard him say.  Sherlock opened the door to the cab and quickly ducked inside, not looking back at the army doctor.  John was grateful for this.  He was so shocked by the action that he stood for a moment, lightly fingering Sherlock’s scarf and feeling heat rise in his cheeks.  

    John climbed into the cab and sat next to Sherlock, who was looking out of his window and clearly thinking.  

    “Um, 221B Baker Street, mate”, John choked out, his voice cracking a little.  He cleared his throat and leaned away from Sherlock, forcing himself to keep safe distance between them.  When he was sure that Sherlock’s attention was fully elsewhere, he surreptitiously buried his lower face into Sherlock’s scarf, basking in the smell of him.  John never wanted to give it back.  

    _Well, fuck me..._ John thought.   _I just might have a **huge** fucking problem, here._


	4. Uh, Oh, I Want Some More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John thinks about Sherlock while in the shower and comes.... to a realization.  
> Sherlock does something unexpected.  
> It's awkward. Hi-jinks ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking this out! I wanted to go ahead and give you lovelies this chapter as I will not be able to post the next one for a while. I promise that I will try to have it finished and edited soon so you can have it! It is currently in the works!

    John stood in the shower, unmoving.  He had his half-hard member held stiffly in his hand.  He was so lost in thought he barely noticed it.  The last several hours kept playing through his head rapidly, with the exception of every glance Sherlock bestowed upon him, which slowed down to a snail’s pace in his mind.  John replayed everything Sherlock had said to him.  He was trying desperately to pinpoint where his problem had begun.

    Before, their time after solving a case would have seemed routine.  But something had changed.  Upon returning, John had rushed into the kitchen and made himself dry toast.  He hadn’t been able to stomach anything else, between the hangover, the crime scene, and his newfound nervousness around Sherlock.  Then he had run off to shower.  There had been no need to alert Sherlock of this fact.  He already stood at the wall, examining the same data and photographs for what had to have been the hundredth time.

    John’s mental playback ended.  He stood in the shower, oblivious to the water running over him, until he suddenly realised he had been in there for far too long.  Sherlock had probably assumed he was masturbating.  The fact that Sherlock would assume this when he hadn’t been made him angry for some reason.   _What the hell?_ he thought.   _Sherlock is going to suspect either way so I might as well._

    John had been clearly aroused since he had gotten in the cab, suffering through it on the way back to the flat.  His cock twitched as he thought about Sherlock’s scarf around his own neck.  John’s eyes closed tightly and he grimaced.  Sherlock, of all people, should not have been able to have this effect on him.  John stroked himself as he thought about Sherlock’s lithe body.  He tried to think about someone else: that really fit woman who had winked at him cheekily the other day, the cute waitress from the other week, countless actresses and models.  This only caused him to lose his rhythm.  In frustration he slammed his hand against the tile, wincing at the pain of tearing his wound open again, but grateful for the distraction it provided.  

    Surrendering, John shut his eyes tight and pictured Sherlock.  He imagined that Sherlock was in the shower with him.  His taut body was all hard angles and soft alabaster skin, contrary as the man himself.  John thought about Sherlock’s hands on his body, exploring every inch of his skin.  He pictured a hungry look on the detective’s face, a craving to know John’s body intimately and thoroughly.  John’s breath hitched in his throat as he found a pleasing rhythm.   _Sherlock, dripping wet_ , he thought.   _Sherlock, on his knees_.  John bit his lower lip so hard he almost broke the skin.   _Sherlock, looking up while taking me into his mouth and..._  Shuddering violently, John felt release.  He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, his chest heaving as the aftershock hit him and his body spasmed a few more times before going still.

    John finished rinsing himself and shut off the water.  He stepped gingerly out of the shower, his legs threatening to cave beneath him.  He reached for a towel and began drying himself off.  When he was dry enough he wiped the condensation from the mirror and stared at his reflection.  He looked shagged out.  Not wanting to have to leave the bathroom and face Sherlock again yet, he brushed his teeth.  When he had finished that he shaved his face with his electric razor.  It was the most careful shave he had had in years.  Finding nothing else to plausibly occupy his time, he squared his shoulders and exited the bathroom, his towel clutched tightly around his waist.  

    John psyched himself up.  He thought, _Just say something normal._   _“Fancy a cup of tea?”  Act normal.  What is normal anymore?_ John was beginning to panic again.  The last thing he needed was to fuck everything up by saying, “Fancy a cup of me?” or something equally suggestive.   _Does Sherlock even know who Freud is?_  John certainly hoped not.

    Luckily for John, he never got the chance to make a fool of himself.  As he rounded the corner into the sitting room Sherlock turned to him and commanded, “Kiss me, John.”

    The naked doctor’s mouth hung open.  He very nearly dropped his towel, and wouldn’t _that_ have been a reply?

    “Sorry, did I hit my head in the shower and black out?  Am I hallucinating?”

    Sherlock narrowed his eyes the way he usually did when he thought someone was being an idiot.  “Is that something you think you would hallucinate?  Me asking you to kiss me?”

    “Well, you’ve never given me reason to think you _would_ say that.  What are you on about, Sherlock?”

    Sherlock moved across the room until he was standing inches away from John.  At a glacial pace he leaned his head forward, his lips brushing John’s earlobe.  John was completely paralyzed.  He was too anxious to move.  He was scared to shove Sherlock away.  He didn’t know what Sherlock was playing at.  What if this was just another experiment of some sort?  What if he needed to do this for the case?  As strange as that sounded, it was all John had to cling onto.  The other reason John was afraid to move was because he was terrified of his own body.  He was petrified that if he started moving at all, his body would betray him and press itself against Sherlock’s.  So instead, he let Sherlock take command of the outcome, whatever that might be.  

    John shivered at Sherlock’s breath on his ear.  He closed his eyes and tried not to let the moan building in his throat escape and alert Sherlock of his want.  

    “I said,” the temptor purred, “Kiss me, John.”

    John gave a little moan as Sherlock’s lips burned teasingly along his jaw.  John leaned back, exposing his neck.  He felt as if he had no control over his own body.  

    “Sherlock,” he breathed, barely more than a whisper.  

    At the sound, Sherlock paused.  John felt his heart hammering in his chest.  Sherlock must have been able to hear it.  After an achingly long heartbeat, Sherlock moved again.  John sensed him pull back and opened his eyes in bewilderment.  John wanted to laugh teasingly.  Ha, ha, you really got me.  But he didn’t want to do anything to threaten it, whatever the hell _it_  was. Sherlock looked frightened.  John couldn’t imagine what he own face looked like as he gazed back at Sherlock.  Sherlock must have seen something inviting, because his eyes softened and he began to lean in towards John again.   _My God, he’s going to actually kiss me_ , John hoped.  John felt the corners of his mouth turn up in a slight smile.

    Just then the door beside them swung open with gusto and in burst Lestrade.

    “You were right, it was the... oooohhhhh”, Lestrade boomed.  “Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

    John’s face flushed crimson and he turned to Sherlock for the answer.  The detective stood rigidly upright, his face a mixture of disdain and its normal impassivity.  “Of course I was right,” Sherlock snapped.  “Lestrade, do John and I make a decent couple?”

    John felt panic crescendo as Lestrade gawked at them both.  Lestrade looked confused and a little embarrassed.  Sputtering, the Detective Inspector said, “Well, I mean, I wouldn’t really know, well, I suppose you look fine.  I mean, congratulations.  We were all beginning to really wonder, so I guess...”

    Sherlock smiled and walked away, seemingly pleased with the answer.  

    John held up a hand and ordered Greg to stop speaking.  “No.  We weren’t.  Nope.”  Sherlock’s head turned back at this, and he looked shocked.  John’s voice went up several octaves as he barked, “And what do you mean you were all beginning to wonder?  Who?  And wonder what?”

    Sherlock rolled his eyes in John’s direction, filling the blogger with animosity.  

    At John’s outburst, Lestrade looked even more confused, as if that were even possible.  “Right,” he said.  “I’m just gonna let you two...”  Without another word Greg was out the door and down the stairs again, leaving Sherlock and John alone once more.

    John waited until he heard the door downstairs shut before slamming the one to their shared space.  

    “Right!  What the bloody hell was all that about, Sherlock?” he bellowed.  

    With complete dispassion Sherlock murmured, “What was what about, John?”  He was already studying his notes intently, as if nothing strange had transpired between them.

    John’s vision blurred and he stumbled for what to say next.   _How can he be so calm about this?_  John wondered, not for the first time, if Sherlock actually was completely balmy.  

    “I mean,” John said with an evenness he didn’t feel, “Why did you try to kiss me?  And why did you ask Greg if he thought we made a nice couple?  I’m trying to understand what’s going on in your head, Sherlock.”

    “Oh that,” Sherlock said lightly, waving him off with a hand.  “I just needed an outside opinion.  As for the...other thing...I wanted to gauge your level of comfort with me.”

    John had never felt so flummoxed in his life.  Slowly, as he regained his faculties, he began to piece together what he could.  Trying to see things as Sherlock would, he said, “You...need to know how much I trust you?  This is for a case.  Right?”

    “Obviously, John.”

    John felt betrayed.  He knew that his first assumption would probably be correct, but he still felt wounded.   _But why would Sherlock ever want to kiss me?_  He thought sadly.  John had to hold onto the only thing he knew.  As much as he tried to deny it, he had wanted to kiss Sherlock Holmes.             

 


	5. These Fires Flourish in Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets impatient and decides to test the boundaries between himself and Sherlock. But how will Sherlock react? Is John getting in over his head?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the awful delay on this chapter. My laptop is dead so it has been difficult getting this online. Thank you for your patience!  
> Special thanks to imdressinuplikeacat and s-s-jawnandsherly for looking this over for me! You guys rock!

    John took his time getting dressed.  Their flat was so silent he felt as if he were preparing to attend a wake.  Dressing for comfort, he put on his most worn pair of jeans.  He completed the task of putting on clothes by slipping his oatmeal-coloured jumper over his button-up shirt.  John almost took his jumper back off immediately.  Despite the obvious chill in the air, his skin felt much too hot.

    John stumbled until the back of his knees hit the edge of his bed, where he crumpled.  He felt weak to his very bones, completely unnerved by the previous events downstairs.  The shock came less from Sherlock acting strangely for a case, and more from John’s reaction to Sherlock’s mere proximity.

    John felt like a prepubescent experiencing sexual attraction for the first time.  His mind began to prod at the edges of these feelings but he quickly stopped himself.  It was too much to handle just being attracted to Sherlock’s _body_.  He couldn’t even begin to ponder anything deeper than that yet.  John had always known, in the back of his mind, that Sherlock was an attractive person.  Upon first glance, he looked a bit strange, but there was something definitely alluring about the combination of his features.  John had been so overexposed to the sight of Sherlock that he could easily pass for the beautiful Apollo in his mind.  This seemed fitting, as the man had become the sun in John’s universe.

    John cursed half-heartedly under his breath.   _Why the fuck did this have to happen to me?  Am I being punished for something?_  He prayed to any deity willing to offer up a reasonable explanation, but was met with only silence.  

    Sherlock had inadvertently pulled John in like a black hole.  John realised that he was simply beyond saving.  Once he knew this with every fiber of his being, he understood what his next move had to be.  John had never done anything half-assed in his entire life.

    John closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.  Exhaling slowly and calmly he sat up on the bed.  John felt the fog in his mind begin to clear as he let his legs carry him out of the room.  He didn’t hesitate.  He walked until he stood directly behind Sherlock.  The detective was at his most recent post, his back to John, his full attention on the notes before him.  John smiled a little when he saw Sherlock’s hips were doing the little dip-and-sway he had found so irritating only hours before.  

    Licking his lips, John reached out slowly for Sherlock’s narrow hips.  Sherlock was still moving, which caused John’s fingertips to brush against him awkwardly.  Instantaneously Sherlock stilled.  John wrapped his hands firmly against the detective’s hip bones.  John pushed Sherlock forward until he was pressed firmly against the wall.  John moved ahead until his body was flushed against Sherlock’s.  He heard a sharp intake of breath that was not his own as he pressed his forehead between Sherlock’s tense shoulder blades.  His fingers curled and relaxed, drumming against sharp bone.  John let himself breathe in Sherlock’s soft purple shirt.  The detective smelled divine.

    Sherlock relaxed but made no attempt to move.  John knew he was letting him get comfortable and move at his own pace.

    “Sherlock,” John murmured, sticking Sherlock’s shirt to his skin slightly with the moisture from his breath.

    Sherlock’s head moved a little towards John, wordlessly acknowledging him.

    “Sherlock, I may not quite understand, but I know you need this.”

    “You’re the only one, John.”

    “I know.”

    Emboldened, John stepped back and spun Sherlock in one swift motion until they were facing one another.  Sherlock’s eyes were open in surprise, his pupils blown wide.  John moved in close and took a deep breath in a useless attempt to calm his racing pulse.  He licked his lips again and wondered what it would feel like to kiss Sherlock.   _Would it be like kissing a woman? Would his lips be soft?_  Sherlock’s lips parted slightly, as if in reply.  John wanted to feel those lips before tasting them.  He lifted his hand but froze at Sherlock’s panicked expression.

    “John!  Your hand!” Sherlock exclaimed as he caught the cause of his distress with both of his own hands.  The detective’s eyes softened but his lips pursed and his brow creased.  

    _No_ , John protested mutely.  He wanted to smooth that furrowed brow and kiss those lips back into fullness.

    “John, when did you split your hand open again?  Was it in the- ...oh.”

    John felt his cheeks warm.  He was embarrassed, but not nearly as much as he had thought he would be.

    Sherlock was quiet for a moment, not looking directly at him.  Eventually, he pressed his large palm against John’s chest and gently pushed him back until he could move past him.  As he did so, he released John’s hand and chastised, “You should have asked me to wrap it for you.”

    John’s gaze fixed upon his shoes.  He stood frozen to the spot until Sherlock returned and tugged him further away from the wall.  Sherlock leaned against the table so he was the same height as John.  He had unrolled gauze piled into a heap on the tabletop next to him.  John’s eyes traveled up the length of Sherlock’s limber body and settled on his wild curls.   _Those damn, distracting curls._  Sherlock’s mouth puckered on the side of his face as he concentrated.  He reached out for John’s hand, but was ignored.  Sensing that John was clearly distracted by something, Sherlock leaned forward and pulled John’s forearm towards his own midsection.  John stumbled over his own feet as he was pulled closer to Sherlock, but he quickly righted himself, cursing  that he didn’t have Sherlock’s excellent balance.  Next to the dark-haired man he felt clumsy and inept.

    Sherlock held John’s right hand gently, palm up.  He picked up one end of the gauze and began to wrap slowly. Absentmindedly, he began to hum one of John’s favourite songs he played on the violin when the soldier was having a nightmare.  It was a soothing number and instantly calmed the light-haired doctor.

    “There, all done.”  Sherlock smiled at his handiwork.

    John wanted them to remain where they were for a bit longer.  Earlier Sherlock had wanted to see if John was comfortable being close to him.  Close enough to pass as a couple.  Now John wished they could attempt this experiment under better circumstances.

    Fear clutched at John’s heart, making him freeze.   _What if he tried something outside of these parameters and Sherlock rejected him completely?_  It was a definite risk.  John might never get an opportunity more to his advantage.  He could kiss Sherlock.  If Sherlock pushed him away, he could simply claim it had been part of his preparation for the case.  If Sherlock kissed him back...

    John didn’t even want to think about that.  He gazed at Sherlock, his heart swelling almost to bursting in his chest.  With his good hand, he reached up and threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  Sherlock’s eyes closed at John’s gentle caress. Without hesitation, John leaned forward and pressed his lips to those of his flatmate.  

    Sherlock’s body gave a small tremor but he didn’t break away.  John broke the kiss but stayed close.  Sherlock’s hands hovered around his waist and his own hands were both clasping the back of Sherlock’s neck.  He pulled Sherlock in for a more fervent kiss, this time using his tongue to gently beg Sherlock to deepen it.

    Sherlock granted him access at the same moment his pale hands found purchase on John’s waist.  John felt his body shiver at this newfound delight.  Then, without warning, Sherlock pulled away.  He yanked down on John’s arms until John, startled, released his hold.

    “Sherlock?”  John stepped back, holding up his hands defensively.  

    Sherlock leapt away from the table, away from John.  One hand pincered on his hip, the other clasped over his open mouth. His electric blue-grey eyes were manic.  John stood perfectly still as Sherlock paced wildly about the room.

    “Sherlock, I’m sorry.  Please, I’m sorry.  Just...earlier... you said-”

    “What?” Sherlock interrupted wildly.

    “Earlier you said to kiss you.”  John tried to keep his voice even, but part of him felt as if he were breaking.  He had obviously made a huge miscalculation.

    Sherlock stopped moving and he stared directly at John.

    “Yes, I did, didn’t I?”  Sherlock spoke as if he were in a dreamy haze.  “Yes.  For the case, John.  So you were just... I see.”  Sherlock seemed to slowly deflate as he said this.

    John wanted to quickly cross the distance between them, say, “Fuck the case”, and kiss Sherlock again.  Instead he moved slowly, as if he were dealing with a wild and dangerous animal.

    “Sherlock, you said you needed to gauge my comfort level with you.  Isn’t that the kind of 'comfort level' you meant?”  John tried to laugh a bit, to put Sherlock at ease, but it sounded obviously forced.

    “Well, yes.  I just wasn’t... It’s fine.”  Sherlock still appeared to be incredibly flustered.  Almost as if his first kiss had been stolen from him, as a grown man.

    At this idea, John had to laugh.

    Sherlock’s eyes immediately narrowed.

    “What’s so funny?” he demanded.

    “Nothing,” John giggled.  “It’s just that it seems the Great Detective Sherlock Holmes had it wrong.  Rather than _me_ having to get comfortable around _you_ , it seems _you_ are the one that will have to get comfortable around _me_.”

    The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched in what John had learned passed for a nervous smile.

    “I fear you may be somewhat correct in this assumption.”

    John’s laughter died abruptly.  Sherlock was actually opening up to him, and John didn’t want to discourage him.

    “Hey, it’s okay, mate.  I sort of caught you off-guard there.  We can try again maybe?  I mean, when you’re ready.  No rush.”  John tried not to sound desperate, shrugging his shoulders loosely to emphasise the casual nature of his words.

    Sherlock eyed him warily.  Neither of them moved for a full minute until John, giving up, went and sat heavily on the sofa.  He exhaled sharply, his breath passing between his lips like air leaving a balloon.  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. _That’s it_ , he thought.   _Things are just going to be awkward now.  I’ll probably have to move out._  The chaos in John’s brain stopped when he felt Sherlock’s slight weight shift the sofa cushion beside him.

    John opened his eyes and turned towards Sherlock, who sat rigidly with his hands cupping his kneecaps.

    Without turning he blurted, “And you’d really be okay with this?”  

    John swallowed.  He knew he needed to answer carefully.

    “You need me to do this, right?  Sherlock, you’re my best friend.”  John pinched Sherlock’s sleeve and tugged, getting his attention.  He leaned forward until he had caught Sherlock’s gaze and said, “I’d do anything you asked.  Just tell me what you need, Sherlock.  Let me help you.”

    Sherlock looked positively gobsmacked.  John leaned back into the sofa again, but this time Sherlock moved with him, as if he were a mirror.  Sherlock relaxed into the soldier’s side and he pressed his temple against John’s.  The proximity, and the fact that Sherlock had initiated it, made John feel like he was going to burst out of his skin.

    They sat like that so long that John thought Sherlock must have fallen asleep.  John’s old bullet wound began to stiffen under Sherlock’s weight and he shifted uncomfortably.  Sherlock moved away.  Desperate not to wound him John stammered, “Sorry, it’s just my shoulder.”

    Sherlock ignored this and said, “John, I do need your help.  Lestrade has come to me with a case involving certain... peculiarities.  I have spared you the details until now partly because you have been busy with other work.  Now I fear I have to include you.  It will require us to become more... intimate.  I need your word that you won’t let the case affect our current arrangements.”

    John let the words sink in before replying.   _Obviously he doesn’t want anything to ruin our friendship._  John then felt like he knew where he stood with Sherlock.  Sherlock didn’t want anything more than what he already had: a true friend.  John wanted nothing less than to take that away from him.

    “Right, fine, Sherlock.  I want to help you in any way that I can.”

    Sherlock looked at him with mild surprise before his mask slipped back on and he simply appeared bored.

    “Well, then.  It’s settled.  To best explain, you and I will need to stop by Scotland Yard.”

    John could only think, _What have you gotten yourself into now, Doctor Watson?_

 


	6. I Will Hold On Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally learns what the elusive case is all about and a choice that will affect their future rests on his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your patience! I am trying to make this story as great as I can for you. I want to thank imdressinuplikeacat for being my brainstorm board and ladyonabuffalo for putting up with the johnlock enough to review it for me. Thank you s-s-jawnandsherly for your notes and BLESS CHUCKSAUCE for her infinite wisdom and patience in helping me improve as a writer!

    “Freak’s here,” Sally Donovan announced as Sherlock walked into the New Scotland Yard offices.  Her eyes narrowed as he glided past her, seemingly unmoved by her attempts to rile him up.  She rolled her eyes and turned back towards the entryway just as John came through.  Donovan’s face eased into a fond smile.  The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, though her voice carried the same exasperation when she added, “Oh look, he’s brought his usual hostage with him.”

    Anderson appeared at Sally’s side and gave a noncommittal huff in sympathy.  John locked onto them both with an annoyed look that conveyed,  _ This is getting old_.  Donovan and Anderson both smirked and crossed their arms smugly.  John then felt inclined to arch an eyebrow and emphasise his friendly warning by clearing his throat.  With a brief nod in their direction, he moved quickly to catch up to his detective.  

    John was right on Sherlock’s heels as the taller man burst through the door without bothering to wait for an invitation. Lestrade, caught in an attempt to balance a pencil on the tip of his finger, was reasonably startled.  The Detective Inspector tossed the writing utensil, his cheeks crimsoning upon seeing Sherlock and John again.  John gave a friendly smile and a “Hullo, Greg,” silently wishing he could erase Lestrade’s memory of Sherlock’s earlier implication involving himself and the petulant detective.  

    “Lestrade, where is she?” clipped Sherlock.

    Grateful for something to do, Lestrade leapt up and walked around his desk.

    “Uh, yeah,” he answered.  “She’s waiting in Interrogation Room Three.”

    Briskly, the three men headed out and down the hall while Lestrade began to lecture: “Now, Sherlock, remember: She’s still very shaken up.  He husband  _has _ just died fairly recently.”  Lestrade affixed Sherlock with the sternest of looks before angling towards John.  “John, I assume Sherlock filled you in on the details?”

    John skipped quickly to catch up to the longer strides of the other two men, stuttering, “N-no, actually.”

    Lestrade glanced at Sherlock in shocked confusion, earning him the knowledge that yes, Sherlock’s eyeballs _ could _  still swivel 360 degrees.

    “Riiight.”  Greg Lestrade looked quizzically between them with his mouth hanging open before continuing: “Noel Gibson, 38. Died a few weeks ago.  Coroner’s report says ‘cardiac arrest’.  It seems a bit odd, given his age and decent physical condition. Unfortunately, there was nothing really setting off any flags.  Tox screen came back negative.”

    Lestrade shrugged, placing his hands on his hips.  He tilted his head and added, “A few days after his death, his wife, Mrs. Grace Gibson, started insisting that there was foul play and that her husband had been murdered.  No one wanted to open the case, given the understanding that it was only going to lead to a dead-end.  She kept at it until she got to me directly.  She has nothing substantial to go on, but it’s clear she’s not going to let this go.  She’s been open and cooperative with our questions so far.  But like I said, we just don’t have any evidence.”

    Lestrade sighed deeply and kept his attention focused on the space before him, refusing to make further eye contact with either man.  After a pregnant pause he loudly whispered, “This is where you two come in.  This is also where it gets…how should I put this delicately?   _ Interesting_.”

    They had reached the interrogation room.  Lestrade opened the door wide, gesturing for them to enter first.

    “Sherlock, Grace Gibson,” he announced from the doorframe.  “Mrs. Gibson, meet Sherlock Holmes and his partner Doctor John Watson.  Apologies in advance.”

    John was pleasantly surprised by how attractive the woman was.  She looked to be about his age, maybe a few years older. Her creamy blonde hair was styled in elegant curls around her shoulders.  Despite being puffy and red from crying, her Dartmouth green eyes shone brightly.  She sat with her knees crossed, her pencil skirt pulled tightly against her thighs.  In her small fist she clutched a used tissue, stained splotchy black from her makeup.

    Meekly, she sniffed, “Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, thank you ever so much for coming.  I must apologise for my current state. I’m so grateful you’ve agreed to see me.  More than I could ever express.  I’ve just been so terribly distraught and I just--”   Sobs cut off whatever else she had meant to say.  

    John smiled sympathetically as he grabbed a fresh tissue from the box and passed it to their (he presumed) newest client. She thanked him with a nod of her head and squeezed John’s arm, quickly but warmly.

    Sherlock snapped to attention at the attempt at physical comfort.  “Mrs. Gibson, I have been privy to most of the details of this case through Detective Inspector Lestrade since I was previously…” Sherlock glowered in Lestrade’s direction and growled through his teeth, “... _denied _  access to you directly.”  With his best manufactured charm he said politely to Mrs. Gibson, “Please, however, enlighten John here of the details you can provide.”

    Sherlock roughly pulled out a chair and sat, indicating for John to sit directly across from the woman.  Lestrade crossed his arms and leaned against the back wall, keeping his eyes trained on the fidgeting Sherlock.  John cleared his throat gently and put his hands, fingers interlocked, on the table as Mrs. Gibson began her story.

    “Well, my husband, Noel, is... _ was _ ...a very nice man.  He was well-liked at his company.  A gentle soul, but not soft.  He dealt with situations fairly.  Never made a fuss.  He was truly a loving and caring man.”

    “Yes, yes, get to the alleged murder,” Sherlock quipped.

    “Sherlock!” snapped John and Lestrade in unison.  Turning back to the startled woman John added, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Gibson.”

    “Call me Grace.”  She smiled wanly at John.

    “Grace.  Please continue.”  John returned her smile apologetically.  

    “Well, a few days before Noel’s death he became violently ill, which was highly unusual for him.  We thought perhaps he had gotten food poisoning, or was sick from stress.  We’d been having a slight bit of a rough patch.  I insisted that he see a doctor, but he insisted on just staying home for a few days, which seemed to put him on the mend.  He resumed his normal activities. But on the following Friday, he was dead.  I still can’t really believe that he’s gone.”

    Her voice cracked and her eyes watered again.  John passed her yet another tissue and frowned his sincere condolences. Sherlock leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers against his lips.  

    In an exasperated tone he breathed, “Mrs. Gibson, do please let’s get at the reason I brought my friend.  These ‘normal activities’ as you so eloquently put them.”

    John made a mental note to clip Sherlock ‘round the ear as soon as they left the building and smiled at Grace, who was turning a faint rose colour.

    “Well, if you insist,” she stammered.  She turned her full attention to the tabletop and said, “My husband had some... _ alternative tastes_...sexually.”

    John’s mouth puckered into a small “o” as his eyebrows scaled his forehead.   _ What does she mean?  Was her husband into wearing lacy things?  Horses?  What the bloody hell have I let him talk me into now? _

    John’s attention returned when he heard the rustle of Lestrade shifting uncomfortably behind him.  He could feel the burn of Sherlock’s eyes on him like a laser beam but John refused to acknowledge him.

    “My husband and I were part of a group,” Grace went on.  “A sort of gathering for couples seeking to... expand their relationships.  It is called The Palace of Eros.”  Furtively she glanced at the other two men in the room before settling on John.

_Well, that explains the “could we pass as a couple” thing at least_ ,  John thought.  

    “Oh, for God’s sake.  It’s a swingers club, is it not?” Sherlock snapped impatiently, all previous politeness absent.

    “Well, yes.  It’s discreet and high-end, but I suppose at the base of it, yes, it is generally considered a place for swinging. Though there are also rooms for those with... _special _  needs.”

    Incredulous, John asked, “What, like a sex dungeon?”

    Grace shook her head quickly.  “I wouldn’t quite put it in those terms.  Anyways, my husband and I  went on numerous occasions in the past several months.  He was the one who suggested it.  It renewed the spark in our sex life, so who was I to argue?”

    She gestured absently with a hand before shifting uncomfortably in her seat.  She examined her nails for the briefest moment before tersely adding, “I quickly changed my mind, though, when I began to suspect my husband was having an affair with someone at The Palace.  He denied it when I confronted him, so I let it go for the time being.”

    Grace shrugged slightly and said quietly, “He was my husband.”  Her voice became forceful as she emphasised, “The one person I was supposed to be able to trust completely.”

    She leaned over the table, splaying her fingers wide.  “Shortly before his death, I began to suspect something was going on.   I have my reasons to believe that this _ woman_ , whoever she is, tried to sink her claws into my husband.  When he obviously refused to leave me, she killed him.  I can feel it in my bones that this is what happened.  I just don’t know how.”

    She sighed and sat back in her chair, closing her eyes momentarily.  When she opened them again, she begged, “That’s why I’ve come to the wonderful Detective Inspector for help.  I don’t have much to go on other than my intuition, so I need someone to investigate for me.”

    “And that’s where we come in,” John sighed putting it all together.

    “Yes, John,” pleaded Grace.  “Will you help me get my vengeance?”

    John sank back into his chair to think.  It felt strange knowing that all the pressure was being put on him.  Usually he was always turning to Sherlock for the answer.  But not this time.  This time, Grace was asking for their help, and Sherlock was asking for his trust.  One word and he could throw a wrench in everyone’s plans.  One word and life could go peacefully back to the way it was; A carefully designed tapestry of silent looks and seemingly meaningless touches.  But John had opened a flood in his heart that could never be dammed.  

    _Can I really take this risk?  What if I ruin everything we’ve built past the point of repair?  Should I have to be the one to blame if this turns sour?_

    But it was too late.  Somewhere, hidden in John’s very soul, he had already begun pulling at a frayed thread, undoing their tapestry with the hidden hopes of reusing the pieces to make an even better one.

    “Yes,” he said, surprising himself still.  “We don’t guarantee that we’ll be able to give you the answers you want, but at the very least we can do our job.  We’ll help you in any way that we can.”

    “John.”  A warning tone from Sherlock.

    John turned to face him.  He felt he owed his that at least.  Desperately, he tried to remain calm and in control while simultaneously wanting Sherlock to see his aching sincerity, to  _ know _ .  Sherlock eyed him stiffly, a marble bust of curiosity. John felt his resolve stiffen and he nodded at Sherlock, who then stared at the floor.  

    John waited for him to speak again, hoping that Sherlock wasn’t going to insist that he remove himself from the case after all of this.

_     Maybe he knows how I feel and he’s not interested (how many ways must he tell me he’s not interested) and he’s trying to think of how to let me down gently. _

    John’s mouth cottoned as he began to perspire.  He tried to think of how to break the now awkward silence when he was beat to the punch.  

    “Right,” said Sherlock, springing to his feet.  “Come along, John.  We have work to do.”

    Flustered and sure his face showed it, John followed Sherlock gratefully out of the room.


	7. How Long Can We Keep This Up?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John spend the night learning about each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless everyone again for going over this again and again and making editing so much easier. This chapter is a little short, but fear not, the next chapter shall be upon you soon.

    After John had agreed to join Sherlock in a ruse of intimacy, the detective had insisted that they get to know one another as thoroughly as possible.  John agreed on the condition that they share Chinese takeaway and large quantities of alcohol, the world’s best social lubricant.  

    A very drunk John squinted at the only slightly less-pissed Sherlock in the dim light of their sitting room.  To better get to know one another they had jokingly started the night sitting in each other’s armchairs, but had long since moved down onto the floor.

    Sherlock smiled lazily as John slurred, “No, no, no.  When you were small.  I mean you had to have been scared of _something_.”

    With his eyes closed, Sherlock teased, “Why do you keep insisting I must have been afraid of something?  Are you suggesting that at one point of my life I was a gullible imbecile?  Has Mycroft been lying to you again?”  Sherlock peeked from beneath heavy lids and stretched his leg out to push playfully against John’s thigh with his foot.  “Really, John.  I thought you knew me better than that.”

    John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s foot, trapping it against his leg.  John had to grin widely.  He had _never_ seen Sherlock so parted from his faculties.  He could now toss out his theory that Sherlock was impervious to alcohol.  As it turned out, he just hadn’t been drinking enough to get proper drunk.  

    Upon realising that Sherlock was openly staring at his hand, John released Sherlock’s foot, though the detective let it remain where it was.  John was incredibly drunk already and only wanted to stay sober enough to be able to watch Sherlock.  He took another full sip as he grinned.  He liked the warm and fuzzy Sherlock across the floor from him.  He seemed unguarded and unassuming.  

    Getting back to their previous discussion, John insisted, “No, no.  I mean, God.  Imagining you as a child is weird, okay?  All I’m saying is, you’re human, right?”  

    John tilted his head and waited for Sherlock to nod.  Sherlock scoffed loudly, his head moving wildly like one end of a seesaw as he replied, “I believe that to be against the general consensus but more scientifically accurate.”

    John blinked rapidly, amazed that Sherlock’s vocabulary did not appear to suffer from liberal alcohol consumption.  He licked his tingling lips and asserted, “Right, so I mean, you must have been scared of something _before_ you thought you knew everything.”

    Sherlock shook his head vehemently while his mouth opened and closed, comically likening him to a codfish, which made John giggle.  Sherlock childishly contended, “I know the important information!  And don’t you DARE bring up the bloody solar system again or I shall throttle you in your sleep!”

    John sat up straighter and clarified, “Fine.  Before Christmas was ruined for you or whatever, you’re saying you weren’t scared of  _anything?_  Like, I don’t know, goblins?  Ghosts?  Mycroft potentially bringing about the next World War?”

    At this terrifyingly possible notion both men burst out laughing.  While John composed himself, Sherlock moved closer to where his blogger was propped up with his back against Sherlock’s dark armchair.  Sherlock reached out a hand and wiped a tear from John’s eyes, the evidence of their joint Mycroft-mocking.

    The entire room seemed to hush when Sherlock touched his face, the mood John had been trying to avoid crowding in.   They had only been joking: Swapping stories and getting to know one another in a carefully constructed environment that had seemed lighthearted, nothing more than part of a game they were playing.  It was innocent.  

    But then Sherlock had touched John.  Had ripped down the curtain.  John felt hyper-alert and serious. His head swam with the scent of leather behind him and Sherlock’s warmth so near him.  John was frozen in place.  Sherlock’s eyes locked on his, all joking aside.

    “John,” he whispered, looking so intently at John that the doctor felt hypnotised.  “What were you most afraid of as a child?”

    “Me?” John sputtered, temporarily forgetting their previous conversation.  He felt faint.  Shyly, he looked away, afraid that Sherlock would make fun of him.

    “Yes, you.  I’ll trade you, fear for fear,” Sherlock purred enticingly.  

    John gulped, ready at that moment to trade his own soul for one taste of Sherlock’s devilishly tempting lips.  “Well,” he went on, pausing to find his courage.  “I suppose I was most afraid of the dark.”  Looking away from Sherlock in embarrassment he quickly amended, “It seems silly now.”

    “That’s because it is.”

    John deflated under the weight of Sherlock’s blunt callousness.  John feigned blithe indifference as he shrugged, “Well, you asked.  I was a kid.  I bet you were afraid of something just as ridiculous.  Let’s hear it.”

    John pulled away just enough so that he was no longer touching Sherlock and saw Sherlock flinch.  Disconnected, John felt as if he were floating, alone.  He felt his jaw lock and he felt ashamed at the hurt that had still carried in his voice.  

    After a long interval Sherlock muttered quickly, “I was afraid of being alone.”

    John blinked at Sherlock in astonishment, his own indignation forgotten.  Sherlock already forgiven.  Without another word, Sherlock spun so that he was facing away from John, his backside parallel to John’s legs.  Slowly, Sherlock stretched out, his head coming to rest on John’s upper thigh.  Still trying to absorb, John blankly stared at the wall opposite, his hand moving of its own accord to rest on Sherlock’s sternum.

    Sherlock sighed deeply and splayed his long fingers over his stomach.  

    The implicated weight of the hurried confession finally hit John in full force, sobering him.  His heart broke for the young, lonely Sherlock in his mind’s eye.  

    “Nobody wants to be alone,” he affirmed gently.  John’s thumb etched slow circles on Sherlock’s chest and he lay his head back, his throat thick and swollen with feelings he couldn’t vocalize.  John felt drained.  He wanted some way to reassure Sherlock that he would always be there for him.  He wanted to hold him, to shelter him from the world that judged him harshly and didn’t try to understand him.

_I want to be with him.  Just us, together against the universe._

    But Sherlock’s ultimatum chose that moment to echo through his head.

_“I need your word that you won’t let the case affect our current arrangements.”_

    Guilt dropped into the pit of John’s stomach and he felt sick.  He looked at Sherlock’s exhausted face and swallowed, not wanting his own conscious to win just yet.

    He leaned over far enough that his lips hovered precariously above Sherlock’s dark coils, just stopping short of entombing his face in Sherlock’s hair.    

    “We’ve been at this all night, yeah?” he soothed.  “Why don’t we get some sleep.  Big night ahead of us.”

    Sherlock hummed but made no show of complying.

    A little louder, John attempted to regain the facetiousness they had shared earlier in the night.  “At least now if someone asks me where you got the scar on your left knee from, I can answer it was from falling out of a...willow? tree on your trip to America when you were...six?”

    After a moment Sherlock saw John’s tone and raised him whimsy, “Quite correct.  On all accounts.  You should get some sleep, John.”

    “Ohhhh, no.  You are coming with me and that is final.  I need to keep an eye on you, make sure you are well-rested and at your best, soldier.”  John smiled widely though he felt sick.

    Sherlock looked back up at him and returned his smile warmly.

    “Yes, sir.”  They giggled, but it dissipated quickly.  John felt off, as if a stranger had entered the room and they had each assumed the other knew who it was.  John nudged Sherlock gently off his lap, getting to his feet fully before pulling Sherlock up.  John realised upon standing just _how_ drunk he actually was, and how drunk Sherlock must have also been.  Together they stumbled into Sherlock’s bedroom.

    Wordlessly, John clumsily undressed down to his pants and undershirt before climbing into the bed.  He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

    Sherlock waited until he heard John’s light snores before undressing himself and climbing in beside his dear doctor.  

 


	8. Your Heart Beats Double-time, Another Kiss and You'll Be Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An uncomfortable issue of privacy. The boys get ready for a night out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Chucksauce again for being my Beta. (She puts in long hard hours, guys).  
> Thanks imdressinuplikeacat and ladyonabuffalo for listening to me talk about my gay smut all the time (and being forced to read it constantly)  
> Thanks for all the support in the comments, guys!  
> I am going to try and post chapters every other week, (fingers crossed every week if I can get the ball really rolling)  
> I hope you enjoy!

_Yes, right there-- oh my God, you feel amazing-- You’re so warm, so...right._

    John writhed about on the bed, oblivious to the world.  His dream was all-consuming.  In his dreams, he could do things he would never dare in his reality.  He could be with anyone he wanted.  And he wanted to be with Sherlock.

    He wanted Sherlock pushed into the mattress, gasping.

_God, fuuuuuck._

    He wanted him, back arching, riding on top of him.

_Jeeeeesus, yes._

    He wanted to part Sherlock’s lips with his fingers.  He needed Sherlock to roll down and drink him in as if he were a lonely desert well.

_More.  I need more of you._

    John wanted to breathe Sherlock in.  He needed them to consume each other completely, a double ouroboros.

_Touch me again, Sherlock.  Yes, there._

_Yes._

    John panted thickly, he eyes wildly rolling beneath his closed lids.  Sweat glistened on his skin as he moved, transcendent. He bit his lower lip, hissing in frustrated anticipation.  He wanted to cry.

_I’m so close.  Please, I’m at the edge.  Stop teasing me._

    In his mind, Sherlock grinned wickedly, his eyes dark as he licked his lips.

_You’re cruel.  You’re terribly cruel.  Let me, please, just let me--_

    “Oh, God!” John screamed, waking fully to the sound of his own cries of ecstasy, his body convulsing.  Warmth spread heavily through his limbs, anchoring him to the bed.  His chest heaved violently as he rapidly tried to catch his breath.

_Woah.  That was possibly the best way to wake up.  Ever.  It felt so...real.  Almost as if Sherlock were really…_

    “Fuck,” John spat, realising he had not been that far off.  He had gone to sleep in Sherlock’s bed.  With Sherlock.

    “Fascinating,” remarked the baritone between John’s knees prosaically.  

    John closed his eyes again and groaned miserably.  It was worse than he had initially assumed: Not only was Sherlock present to witness the aftermath of one of John’s best wet dreams, apparently he had paid for a front-row seat.

    Unable to put off the inevitable any longer, John propped himself up onto his elbows to better assess the full extent of the hopefully reparable damage.

    Breathing deeply, he opened his eyes again.  The sight he was met with was something he never expected to see in his lifetime: Sherlock was sitting cross-legged between John’s legs, marveling at his fingers like a recently animated statue discovering he suddenly possessed mobility.  Sleep combined with a hangover clouded John’s vision slightly, but he thought he saw something pearlescent shimmering on his flatmate’s long, fair fingers.

    Although he knew he was safely on the bed, John felt like he was plummeting.  Incredulous, he blurted, “My God, Sherlock, is that my--?  On your hands?!”

    His expression carefully vacant, Sherlock remedied, “It’s on your hands, too.”  Then his pitch dropped, causing John’s stomach to hurtle forward.  “I was curious.  John, you are a magnificent specimen of the male form.”

    John ignored his comment, focused on the feel of Sherlock’s vibrato quaking the bed beneath them as he sputtered for oxygen.

    In a panic, John shouted, “But it’s _my_ sperm!  This isn’t happening.  I’m still dreaming.  I must be.”

    Sherlock’s face flushed.  His lips were slippery with saliva as he explained, “No, John.  You were dreaming.  Very pleasantly.  I could deduce that if I was the world’s only _blind_ consulting detective.  But sorry, you are now very much awake.”

    Then Sherlock grinned.  And it was so much like the wicked grin from his dream that John had no further action at his disposal other than letting his head fall back against the pillow.  In a dead tone, he groaned, “Kill me now.  End my suffering.”

    There was a long pause as Sherlock seemed to consider this.  Then John, feeling a chill, added, “Sherlock?  Where are my pants?”

    Responding to John’s exacerbation, Sherlock crisply commented, “They were in the way so I took them off.”

    “Well, then.  Now that you’ve solved the Mystery of the Missing Pants for me I think I’m all up to speed.  I’m just going to call this one of your ‘experiments’ and try not to think about it.  Ever again.  Are we clear?”  John was irritated with himself but chose to take it out on Sherlock, who was still sitting there transfixed.

    “I don’t see what the big deal is, John.  You were only masturbating.”

    “And you were only, what?  Helping?”

    Defensively, Sherlock clarified, “I was observing.  I only interfered when I thought it was absolutely necessary.”

    This was what John had been dreading.  Though he had been the one to mention it first, he hadn’t actually wanted this strange occurrence to be just another experiment to Sherlock.  “See, this is what people are thinking about when they say you’re weird, Sherlock.”  The words came out harsher than John actually meant them.

    Sherlock tilted his head to the side and peered at the corner of the room, sarcastically saying, “They think about me watching you masturbate?  They could at least me a _little_ more imaginative.”

    Seriously, John remarked, “Sherlock, I’m not kidding.  You have no concept of boundaries!  A normal person would have left the room!  Ever heard of privacy?”

    Sherlock looked wounded and John instantly regretted his choice of words.  Before he could open his mouth to apologise, Sherlock shot back, “Clearly, I’m not ‘normal’, John.  I’ve never purposefully led you to believe otherwise.  Besides, normal is boring!”

    John didn’t know when they had started raising their voices, but they were suddenly screaming at each other full-volume. Sherlock was trembling though his eyes had gone cold.  John could feel every muscle in his face clenched tightly.  He took a slow, deep breath and lowered his voice, effectively ending their row.

    “Sherlock, look.  I know you’re strange.  You’re completely different from anyone I’ve ever met, but that’s one of the many things I love about you.  All I’m saying is: We need to establish some boundaries.  It’s really embarrassing for me to know that you were just here, watching...that.”

    Sherlock was still upset but his voice softened.  “For your information, I am very well-acquainted with social mores.  I’m not an idiot.  I just tend to ignore them because I’m not trying to impress anyone.  I don’t care what they think about me personally.  What’s important is that they acknowledge my work.”  Sherlock took a slow, shuddering breath and fiddled with his dressing gown belt.  Then he whispered, “You’re the only one who consistently subjects yourself to my presence.  You’re the only person who matters, John.  So, yes, I was leaving because I knew you’d be angry.  But…”

    “What?”  John’s voice had tempered.  He’s never heard Sherlock speak that way about him before.  He felt conflicted.  On the one hand, he needed to be stern with Sherlock.  But on the other hand, _Sherlock had stayed_.  That had to mean _something_. Sherlock had even gone so far as to say that he alone mattered.  No one else.  John couldn’t help but have the slight suspicion that Sherlock was saying that to manipulate John into forgiving him, but he found that he no longer cared.  Eventually his curiosity overcame all else.

    “What, Sherlock?” he repeated.  “Why did you stay?”

    “Because,” Sherlock looked down, his curls masking his eyes, “You said my name.”

    “I did?”

    “Oh, yes.  Several times in fact.”

    “Okay.  Yes.  Alright,” John huffed, his face scalding.

    Sherlock looked at John again, his expression full of questions John wasn’t sure he was ready to answer.

    “Sherlock, I’m sorry I yelled at you, okay?”  John reached out and touched Sherlock’s knee in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.

    Sherlock smiled wistfully.  “Then I suppose I’m sorry I invaded your privacy.”  Then more boisterously he added, “Though to be fair I had a perfectly reasonable--”

    “Sherlock,” John warned.

    “Right.  Sorry.”

    Without another word the detective sprang over John’s leg and landed nimbly on his feet.  He called over his shoulder, “Well, now that that’s settled, we have pressing matters to attend to.  We both need a shower and to leave for our preliminary test.”

    John finally noticed that it was dark outside.  

    “My God, did we sleep the _entire_ day?”

    “Cleverly deduced.  Yes, John, just about.  Which is why we need to be moving.  Hop in the shower with me, it’ll be faster,” Sherlock assured.

    John’s eyes widened at the thought of showering with Sherlock.  Naked.  Wet.

_Good thing I’m completely spent or I’d be in trouble again._

    Seeing his reaction and possibly mistaking it for revulsion Sherlock snapped, “Really, John.  As if we could be any more physically acquainted with one another at this point.”

 _Oh, you have no idea_ , John thought as he ran through several deliciously wicked scenarios in his head briefly before acquiescing to Sherlock’s suggestion.

    The shower was nowhere near as sensual as the one John had played out in his head the day before.  They merely cleaned themselves off quickly as they discussed the business at hand.  Sherlock kept his distance.  He only made contact with John when passing the shampoo bottle.  Their fingertips connected for a millisecond, but John felt a pulse reverberate under his skin for several minutes.  They skirted around each other awkwardly, taking turns under the showerhead in a carefully orchestrated waltz, neither willing to stand on this particular landmine.

    Sherlock left the bathroom as soon as John shut the water off, giving John precious seconds alone to try and get his head straight.  He needed to be focused for his part tonight.  

 _How did I get here?_ John wondered as he moved back into the bedroom, securing his towel around his hips.   _I was a soldier. I did my duty well.  I’m a doctor.  That’s something respectable.  I could be fighting the common cold right now.  Instead I’m playing dress up with this barmy arse._

    John took a moment to admire said arse.  Oblivious to the attention, Sherlock was a flurry of movement, tossing clothes wildly from his wardrobe containing all of his disguises.  

    It took John less than a second to know that being with Sherlock was infinitely more enjoyable than anything he could have been doing.  There was simply no comparison, even if it was only pretend.  

    John cleared his throat loudly and shook his head to rid himself of unwanted thoughts.

    “Right, then.  What’s the plan?”

    Sherlock spun around, dropping the clothes he had been sorting through.  “The plan?  John, we’ve been over the plan.”  He rolled his eyes and turned back to what he was doing, clucking, “How you even tie your own shoes sometimes astonishes me.”

    “Oi!  Alright, prissy-pants.  No need to get hostile,” chastised John as he moved closer.

    “Prissy-pants?” Sherlock squeaked, his nose crinkling as he tried the phrase out and found it distasteful.

    “Well, what else would you call them that you’re wearing?”  John frantically gestured at the fuschia silk boxers that concealed John’s latest obsession.

    “John, these are for tonight.  Here, I have a special pair of pants for you, too.”  Sherlock held out a ball of leopard-printed material for John to take.  Which he declined.

    “Okay, this is where I draw the line.  There is no way in _hell_ I am putting on a  leopard-print banana hammock, or whatever that is.  For one thing, they look uncomfortable.  For another thing: No.”

    Sherlock sighed, losing patience.  “John, grow up.  It’s for your disguise.  This will help you get into character.  And who knows, you may find you enjoy them.”

    “Sherlock, they’re leopard-print!”

    “Yes, and in your travels I’m sure you’ve seen a leopard or two!”

    No longer able to take the bizarre badgering, John burst out laughing.  Tears gathered in the creases around his eyes as he waved his hands in front of his face, palms out.  He couldn’t form coherent words so he left instead, cackling all the way to his bedroom.

    He snickered as he dressed himself, stylish yet sensibly, in his own clothes.  Pulling a jumper on over a collared-shirt, John knew that his earlier row with Sherlock was already gone from his mind.  He slowly pulled on jeans, socks, and shoes, before taking his time coming back down the stairs.  John readied himself to laugh again when he saw what else Sherlock had deemed mandatory wear for a gay bar.

    Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, one ankle resting on the opposite knee.  His foot shook with a nervous rhythm.  Sherlock looked more-or-less normal, which surprised John as he stepped fully into the room.  The detective stood abruptly in his dark jeans and dark blue dress shirt, his sleeves roughly rolled up to his elbows.  A few buttons had been left open at the top, parading Sherlock’s alluring, elongated neck.  Black boots, rather than his usual dress shoes, adorned his feet.  John noticed that Sherlock had gone so far as to style his hair.

    An outsider would not have noticed anything unusual in his facade, but to John the simple changes were remarkable. Sherlock looked more mainstream, more approachable.

    “You look pretty nice,” John offered up without planning to.

    Sherlock’s face fell and he glanced over John’s choice of attire.  “And you look normal.”  Sherlock sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes.  He stomped back into his bedroom, leaving John to give his outfit another cursory glance before making rude gestures at the back of Sherlock’s slicked back hair.

    “Yeah, well whatever you did to your hair makes you look like a right git!  What are you supposed to be, some cheesy movie villain?”  John knew he would pay for that when Sherlock returned, but he didn’t care.  He was nervous, which chose at that moment to manifest itself as adrenaline-fueled rebellion.  Sherlock returned from his bedroom again wearing a lined leather jacket.  His steely gaze fixed on John, in a slightly playful menace.  John stared back just as hard, daring Sherlock to say something contrary about his offbeat hair.

    “You think my hair looks stupid?” he challenged in a voice colder than the Arctic air.

    “I said it makes you look stupid.”  Feeling reckless and brave, John closed the gap between them in one long stride and grabbed Sherlock’s face, pulling him close.  Sherlock’s pupils dilated and his breath hitched in his throat.  John felt profoundly powerful.  All of his building frustration with Sherlock was aching to be let out.  The reasonable part of John’s brain screamed at him to stop.  He knew if he fully surrendered, Sherlock would hold all of the cards, and he wasn’t willing to just let him win that easily.  Like a cat, John wanted to play with his victim a bit.

    Rather than letting their lips be reacquainted so quickly, John nipped playfully at Sherlock’s nose, distracting the taller man enough to let him ruffle Sherlock’s curls roughly back to their usual madness as he grinned diabolically.  Satisfied with the amount of pandemonium he had obviously caused, he stepped away, throwing on his coat and skipping down the stairs to hail them a cab.  

    Sherlock was left jilted, his hand dumbfoundedly moving to his nose.  He had never seen John in such a mood and it left him scattered and punch-drunk.  Remembering that John was waiting for him in the cold he put on his usual mask of nonchalance and left the flat.  


	9. Don't Hold a Glass Over the Flame (Hold Me Fast)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John attempt a night out. There are some (amazing) unintended consequences.

    John had been to a few gay bars before with Harry.  Each time he was left stressed out and dragging his too-intoxicated sister back to her flat while she belted off-key numbers from famous musicals.  Being at a gay bar with Sherlock turned out to be less stressful, but not as an exciting experience as he imagined it might be.

    Within five minutes of crossing the threshold, Sherlock had already finished impressing John by choosing the only remotely intriguing patrons of the establishment and stripping them mentally.  John knew better than to second-guess Sherlock’s deductions by now, so he had merely kept quiet.  They stood at the bar, their bodies a study in poise while their minds raced.

    On a whim, John tried leaning into Sherlock, but the proximity suffocated his heart so he pulled away quickly.  Sherlock ordered them both drinks and John accepted his gratefully, glad for something to keep his hands occupied.  When Sherlock wasn’t observing the crowd, his eyes were locked onto John.  John’s hair-lips-eyes-chest-hands.  Sherlock could see that John was distracted, as he himself should have been.  Oh, but he was.  Just not in the same manner.

    John was vaguely aware of Sherlock’s ambiguous caresses every time Sherlock brushed against him, which was often.  John was worried that someone from the clinic would recognise him, while also wanting something to pull his focus further from Sherlock’s nearness.  Unable to make eye contact, John resorted to sipping his drink and nodding absently as Sherlock’s dulcet tones numbed his ear.  After several minutes without a proper response Sherlock let the conversation coagulate.  John made no attempt at verbal resuscitation.  

    John could still feel the lingering dopamine coursing through his system from his intense dream.  He needed to expel energy, and he needed to get away from Sherlock before he snapped and did something insane, like grab him roughly by the jacket for a darkened-alley snog.

    “Sherlock, I’m going to go mingle for a bit.  Might as well see if anyone here has heard of this Palace of Eros.”  When Sherlock looked like he would go with him, John added, “Maybe do some dancing, who knows.  You stay here so we can cover more of the pub.”

    Sherlock nodded and leaned back against the bar.  His eyes reminded John briefly of a kicked puppy, and he almost ran back to bury his face apologetically in Sherlock’s shirt.  But he knew he needed to just catch his breath for a moment, so he walked away.

    A few men grinned coyly at John as he crossed the room and he smiled back politely.  Sherlock had said that they needed to pass as a couple, which John took to mean he wasn’t required to flirt with anyone.  The music blasting from the dancefloor was some bass-heavy pop number John didn’t recognise.  It was definitely not something Sherlock would ever play on his violin.   He looked around for someone to talk to, desperately trying to think of good conversation starters.  Before he could make any attempts at being social, he was tapped on the shoulder while someone shouted in his ear, “Wow!  I haven’t seen you here before!  Do you come here often?”

    John groaned internally, unable to believe that anyone would actually use a line that corny, but grateful that it saved him from having to think of a worse one himself.  He turned around and was stunned to see a familiar face.  

    “Murray!” he shouted delightedly above the din as he threw his arms around the other man.  “Oh man, I haven’t seen you since I got sent home!”

    Murray embraced John tightly and stepped back to take him in.  “Watson, it has been a long time.  You look great!  How’s the bullet wound?”

    John gave his shoulder an obligatory squeeze and said, “Oh you know, wounded.  It’s stiff sometimes still but nothing more than I can handle.”

    “I heard you’re a writer now?  Let me get you a drink so we can catch up.  It’s the least I can do.  Are you here by yourself?”

    John nodded towards the bar at Sherlock, who was shamelessly glaring in their direction.  John gave him a small wave and Sherlock looked away haughtily.  John smiled at Sherlock being his usual rude self and turned back to the very bewildered Murray.  

    “Come on, Bill.  I want you to meet someone.”

    Murray followed him to a table, where John left him to collect the disconcerted consulting detective.  When they had all sat down John made the proper introductions.  

    Murray’s mouth fell open upon hearing who John’s “date” was.  

    “So you’re _the_ Sherlock Holmes I’ve been hearing so much about?”

    Sherlock rolled his eyes and said acidly, “As opposed to _a_ Sherlock Holmes?”  

    John kicked him under the table and Sherlock scowled back.  Murray politely looked away in confusion.  

    “So, John.  How long have you and Sherlock been together?  I mean, no offense, but I didn’t even think you were interested in men.  If I had known that, maybe I would have given it a shot.”  He winked cheekily then added, “Only teasing, Sherlock.”

    Sherlock gave Murray a withering look while John stammered, “Well, we’re not... I mean, I’m not... How should I put this? Sherlock?  Any help here would be nice.”

    John didn’t want to lie to his friend, but he didn’t want to lie to himself either.  He decided the best course of action would be to let Sherlock establish what they were and just run with it.

    Sherlock took pity on his doctor for once and said with a Cheshire grin, “John and I have been together since he got back from Afghanistan.”

    “Yes.  For a few years now,” John added.  It wasn’t a lie.  

_If Murray wants to assume that we’re having sex, so be it._

    “Congratulations, man,” Murray beamed.  “To both of you, I mean.  Watson’s a great guy, and if you’re good enough for him, then well done.”

    John smiled shyly, “I think you may have that the other way around, mate.  Sherlock’s amazing.  I’m just lucky enough that he lets me follow him around.  What can I say?  I’m never bored.”

    Sherlock’s eyes softened and he reached out and placed his hand over John’s on the table.  For a moment John let himself believe it was gesture of normal, genuine affection shared between two lovers.   _That’s it, I’ve become a masochist_ , he thought, groaning internally.  Desperate to think about anything else, John leaned conspiratorially towards Murray and said, “Listen, Murray.  This may sound completely odd, but have you ever heard of The Palace of Eros?  It’s a place for...couples.”

    Murray frowned in concentration.  “Eros?  Sorry that doesn’t ring any-- hold on.  Maybe.  I vaguely remember a friend saying something like that.  I could ask him if you like.  Get back to you?  I’m fairly sure he said something about him and his wife trying out something new.  Are you two interested in going there?”

    John couldn’t believe his luck.  “Cheers, mate.  You have no idea how helpful that would be.  We heard about it from another couple who’ve been and thought we’d give it a whirl.  The only thing is, our friends haven’t been in a long time and they don’t know what the most recent codeword is to get in.  If you could find that out, I would definitely owe you big time.”

    “Nonsense,” Murray waved him away.  “After all you’ve done for me, consider this me repaying you.  I’ll look into it for you.”

    “Great!”

    Sherlock stood quickly, extending his hand to shake Murray’s stiffly.  He nodded curtly and said, “Come, John.  We should be getting home.”

    “It’s fine if you want to leave, Sherlock.  I think I’m going to stay a while longer and catch up with Murray, here.  I’ll see you later.”

    Sherlock sucked on the inside of his cheeks before turning on his heel and leaving John without another word.  When the door had closed behind the detective, Murray turned to John with mild embarrassment all over his face.  

    John soothed his friend with a flippant shrug of his shoulders.  “Yeah, he’s usually that rude.  Don’t take any offense.  He’ll get over whatever’s bothering him.”

    John caught up with Murray over several pints.  In his head he told himself that it was good to put some space between himself and Sherlock.  He was getting too wound up and confused.  Being so close to the object of his frustration hadn’t been helping in the least.  Even with Sherlock gone, however, he was more present to John than the man in front of him.  Sherlock was always with him.  He could never get him out of his head.  John wanted to go home and smooth things over with Sherlock, but he knew if he left too early he would catch a sulking Sherlock, who would have another row with him.  He hoped that if he stayed out late enough, Sherlock would be in his bed already, allowing John to slip past to his own bedroom.  

    It seemed as if John’s luck for the night had run out, however.  Sherlock had left the door to their flat open, easily able to spot John as he silently made his way up the stairs.  Sherlock was sitting in the dark on their sofa.  Upon seeing John he loudly cleared his throat, alerting the doctor to his presence.  

    “Jesus, Sherlock!” John said, startled.  Then he raised his eyebrows and his tone.  “What are you still doing up?”  John tried to sound light and playful, hoping Sherlock would forgive him easily for whatever sin he seemed to have committed.

    “I was waiting for you, John.  You said, ‘I’ll see you later’.”

    John exhaled a deep sigh.  “I meant later as in ‘see you in the morning’.”

    “Well that’s what you should have said then.  I’m not a mind-reader.”

    Sherlock was clearly still upset.  John knew that he had to fix whatever the problem was quickly or neither of them would get any sleep.  He stepped into the room from the landing and closed the door behind him.  Shrugging off his coat he made his way towards Sherlock and the couch, using the dim luminescence coming through the window to guide him.  He sat down next to Sherlock, who moved further away.  John sighed again.  

    “Sherlock, what’s bothering you so much?”  The tension rolling off of Sherlock was palpable and John was grateful for the dark.  

    “We were supposed to be there together, John.  The whole point of being there was to see if we could pass as a couple, and you just left me.  The last time I checked the dictionary, the definition of ‘couple’ was ‘two’, not ‘one’.”  

    “Sherlock, you were being a miserable sod!  Of course I didn’t want to just stand next to you.  I know we have to be able to pass as a couple to get into The Palace, but that’s really not that hard.  You just have to trust me.  I don’t understand how you thought standing next to each other at a club would prove anything.  That’s not what being a couple is about, at all.”

    “Well, forgive me, John.  I thought I was trying.  Clearly you’re the expert here.  Do please enlighten me.”  Sherlock was being sarcastic, but John knew him well enough to know he was hiding some insecurity.  

    “Have you ever been in a couple, Sherlock?  I mean, I just assumed... Well you’ve never led me to believe that you had.”

    Sherlock was silent for so long John wondered if he had merely vanished from the room.  Then a small voice came from the shadows next to him.  “There was...someone at Uni.  Briefly.  He was fascinating.  I had never met anyone like him before.  All I knew was that I wanted to be near him all the time.  I suppose you could say I was infatuated.  He would sometimes let me just be near him at parties, but nothing more.  I already had a reputation of being a freak and I guess he didn’t really want anyone to think that there was anything between us.  Not that there ever was.  He left school before me and I never heard from him again.”

    John sat in silence for a moment, soaking in Sherlock’s confession.  “Sherlock,” he ventured gently, “I’m sorry you were treated that way.  But trust me, being in a real relationship is so much better than that.  It’s about mutual care and respect and trust.  Not some arrogant tosser leading you on and abandoning you.  That’s just cruelty.”

    John felt pressure against his side.  Sherlock leaned over, resting his temple against John’s shoulder carefully.  John leaned his own temple onto Sherlock’s crown of curls as Sherlock breathed deeply, relaxing into John.  

    “Sherlock, we have to work on this together, or it won’t work at all.  We don’t need to ask someone else if they would believe we were together just by spotting us on the street.  We just need to trust each other.  And be relaxed around each other.  And the closeness and everything else will just be fine.”

    Sherlock sat up again.  “John, I thought we _were_ close.  Last week we were fine.  Then you slept in my bed and suddenly you started acting peculiar.  And now I don’t know how to act around you anymore.  One minute you kiss me and the next you won’t come near me.  You’ve spun me around so many times I’m completely discombobulated.”  

    John understood completely.  He felt the exact same way.  He felt explosive around Sherlock, like they were baking soda and vinegar.  He knew Sherlock was talking about getting close for the sake of the case, and he knew that should be his focus as well, but he couldn’t fight past his riptide of desires.  He knew what he had to do to have his cake and eat it too.  He needed to help Sherlock understand what being with someone could really be like, all while convincing the most clever man he knew that he was only acting.  He could be with Sherlock, with the other man assuming John was doing his part to help with the case. Whatever came of this was out of John’s hands, but he knew he needed to do more than just kiss Sherlock Holmes.  Sherlock clearly had not yet feasted at the banquet of physical intimacy, and John was finding more and more that he dearly wanted to be the one to nourish him.

    “Do you trust me, Sherlock?” he asked, knowing the answer but needing to hear it aloud.  

    “Don’t ask stupid questions, John,” he answered obliquely.  

    Getting what he needed, John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand in his own.  With his other hand he reached across for Sherlock’s chest.  Finding it, he clenched his fist tightly around the soft material of his shirt, pulling Sherlock fractionally closer. He paused, allowing Sherlock to make the next move.  He did not disappoint.  Sherlock’s free hand moved to cup John’s face, idling over his rough stubble.  John licked his lips and just waited, his impatience for action threatening to overtake him and ruin everything.

    His fortitude was well-rewarded by soft lips cautiously meeting his own.  John let himself be kissed.  When Sherlock pulled away John realised he had forgotten to breathe.  He hastily drew in oxygen, but was cut short by Sherlock’s lips meeting his own with greater urgency.  They became a whirlwind of hands and mouths, touching and caressing attentively.  Sherlock pressed against John’s body until they were laying on the couch, Sherlock writhing atop John, both feverish with want.  

    _How is this actually happening_ , John thought with what little brain power he had left.  He could feel Sherlock’s growing erection pressing roughly against his own.  Firmly he grasped Sherlock’s hips, trying to help him find his rhythm.  Sherlock clumsily shoved a hand between them, where heat met with heat.  Leaning back, he fumbled with buttons and zippers, groaning in frustration.  John let go of his hips and helped him get his trousers open.  Sherlock’s erection clearly ached to be free from its silk prison.  

    Sherlock whined desperately, demanding John kiss him again.  John’s own desire throbbed, craving attention, but he was too focused on Sherlock.  He leaned in to kiss him hungrily as he reached a hand inside Sherlock’s boxers.  Without warning, Sherlock came forcibly, jackknifing on top of John’s body before collapsing onto his chest.  

    John lay perfectly still, catching his own breath as Sherlock heaved against him.  He listened intently for Sherlock to say something, his brain not yet able to process what had just happened.  Sherlock began to shake, his breath hitching.  He was sobbing.  John adoringly wrapped his arms around the tremulous man.

    “Shhh, it’s okay.  You’re okay, Sherlock.  I have you.  I’m here.”  John breathed soothing tones into Sherlock’s hair, desperately trying to make everything okay again.  He coated Sherlock in soft kisses and rubbed his back gently until long after Sherlock had stopped.  Once John felt Sherlock had calmed down enough, he nudged him up into a sitting position.  Sherlock recoiled, leaning away from John, but John didn’t let him go.  Sherlock looked so frail, pulled into himself.  John stroked Sherlock’s head before standing.  He buckled his trousers and helped Sherlock to stand.  Slowly he led Sherlock into the bathroom, where he instructed him to take his clothes off while he filled the tub.  

    Sherlock lowered himself carefully into the water, eyes downcast.  John grabbed the detachable shower head and began washing the product out of Sherlock’s hair.  When he had finished with that, he rubbed Sherlock’s back and chest with a flannel, letting Sherlock take it from him to clean the rest of his body.  The tub was drained, but still Sherlock sat.  John smiled at him tenderly, wanting to wrap Sherlock in his arms again and hold him tightly.  Sherlock finally looked at John, his eyes open and completely vulnerable, as John had rarely seen them.

    “What happened, John?” he croaked.

    “It’s okay.  That’s perfectly normal.  Was that the first time you’ve ever...” John stroked his cheek while trying to assure him. When Sherlock looked away, John leaned closer, wrapping his hands around Sherlock’s neck and pressing his nose into Sherlock’s jugular.  “It’s okay, Sherlock, really,” he coaxed gently.

    He felt Sherlock swallow before he said, “No. I mean, yes.  I meant, what happened to us?  Earlier we were just joking, then I was angry, and now I don’t know.”   

    John backed away to look at Sherlock’s face again.  He could see the gears furiously turning in Sherlock’s head.  Square blocks in round holes.  

    “Why don’t you get out of the tub before you freeze to death and we can talk about it.”

    Sherlock nodded dumbly and did what John asked of him.  John left him to dress for bed while he went to his own room to do the same.  As soon as he had his own bedroom door shut behind him he collapsed, sliding down the door and onto the floor.  He allowed only moments before collecting himself again.  He wanted to be with Sherlock.  Sherlock needed him.  

    When he came back down in his usual t-shirt and boxers, Sherlock was already in bed, facing the opposite wall.  

    “Sherlock?” John stepped into the room cautiously.  

    “Come in,” came the detached response.  

    John climbed into the bed behind Sherlock, suddenly remembering the night that had started all of this.  To John, that night seemed to have happened ages before.  That first night, they still had the chance to go back to normal.  Now, things were irrevocably changed for both of them.  

    “John, I’m sorry,” Sherlock said.  

    John hated the meekness he heard.  Sherlock should never be meek.  He was strong and pig-headed and determined.  Not this broken creature.  

    “Sherlock, don’t ever say that.  It wasn’t your fault.  There’s nothing wrong with you.  I don’t think either of us was really expecting that to happen.”

    “John... I was mad earlier.  At the club.  That’s why... I overreacted.”  

    “Why were you mad?”  John wanted to understand.  To make things clear.

    “I don’t know.  You seemed so distant.  Then you just left me at the bar and I saw you getting really close with Murray and I just... lost it.”

    “But, Sherlock, wasn’t it obvious to you of all people that I knew him?”

    “Yes, obviously.  But he touched you and I just…  I didn’t want him to touch you.  I don’t want anyone to touch you.”   Sherlock spoke quickly, the words stumbling over themselves and his voice cracking painfully.

    John couldn’t believe what he was hearing.   _Was Sherlock jealous?_  

    “Sherlock, people need to be touched.  It’s part of what makes us human.  We crave contact.  Don’t you ever want to be touched?”  John reached out to stroke Sherlock’s back.  Before their skin met, he stopped.  

    “Not particularly, no.”  Then he amended, “I don’t mind when you touch me, John.  Sometimes I feel an urge to touch you, too.”

    John’s vision was swimming.  He didn’t know how long he had been waiting for Sherlock to say that to him.  With that reassurance, he closed the gap between them, pressing his body tightly against Sherlock’s.  He feathered kisses along thin shoulder blades, trying to express his profound love for this man in anything but words.  Sherlock curled into him and sighed deeply.  

    “John, are we ready to go to The Palace?  We may have to do things there.  I thought I would be fine, but now I’m not so sure.”

    “We don’t have to do anything that we don’t want to, Sherlock.  You never have to do anything you don’t want to.  If you don’t trust someone, don’t feel like you have go through with anything.  I’ll be close by if you need me.”  John felt as if he were giving parting advice, as though he were preparing himself to lose Sherlock, despite Sherlock’s words.  

    _What if Sherlock actually does want to have sex, he just never acted on it before now?  What if he meets someone that he wants to be with?  Could I really step aside and let someone else get close to him?_

    John knew that he was too selfish to let that happen.  

    _But what if it’s what he wants.  I would give him anything he wanted.  Anything in the world._

    John wished not for the last time that none of it had ever happened.  

  _What if he wanted to have sex with me?  Would he only want physical intimacy?  Would he master that as quickly as he mastered everything and get bored?_

    Insecurities careened through John’s mind as he came to the realisation that he was most dreading: _I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes.  And it’s making us both fucking miserable._


	10. There's an Albatross Around Your Neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trepidation, tea, touching.

    John awoke less than an hour after he had finally managed to fall into a fitful sleep.  In that short span of time, Sherlock had already vacated the space beside him.  John knew that Sherlock probably meant nothing personal by leaving John alone, but knowing that Sherlock had most likely gone into the next room to think didn’t make it hurt less.  Without Sherlock, the bed was too large and much too cold and lonely.  Too alert to fall back to sleep, John rolled out of the bed to go relieve himself.  He trusted that the toilet flushing would be more than enough to alert Sherlock that he was awake. 

    John was far from surprised to find Sherlock standing in front of his wall of data yet again, his hands firmly on his hips.  The motionless detective had thrown his royal blue robe over his grey t-shirt and his dark pajama bottoms, his usual clothes for lounging around the flat.  John had never given the pieces of fabric much thought before, but now he wanted to touch the soft cotton, wanted to feel the tightness of Sherlock’s muscles beneath it.  John shook that thought and the remnants of sleep away as he loudly cleared his throat.  Sherlock stood transfixed with the wall, paying him no attention.  John took a few steps closer and was about to say something when he noticed Sherlock wasn’t completely static.  His toes were wriggling frantically, which John knew was an outward sign that Sherlock’s brain was racing out of control again.

    Rather than approach his own personal _David_ , he shambled into their cold kitchen to make tea.  While he waited for the water to boil he carefully examined each of their mugs: Some of his were chipped, but they held sentimental value so he couldn’t bear the thought of chucking them out and replacing them.  Next to Sherlock’s cups, his looked especially ordinary and worn.  

    Sherlock’s mugs were designed simply, but all were in pristine condition.  They reminded John of mugs you would find in a corporate office, so he tried to imagine Sherlock sitting behind a large desk, gazing out of his own thirtieth-floor window at the bustling city below.  He would have his own secretary, a bombshell who harboured a not-so-secret crush on him, but to whom he paid no attention to.  He would sign paperwork all day and hold countless meetings.  Sherlock would hate a life like that.

    John couldn’t successfully imagine a life for Sherlock other than the one he already had.

    _The one he has with me._

    Astounded, it hit John in that moment just how precious his time with Sherlock had previously been,  now that he was possibly on the verge of losing him.  Unlike himself, Sherlock scoffed at sentiment.  His dishware alone was a clear example of that.  John was also surprised to realise just how completely unprepared Sherlock was for a relationship.  John wanted, for selfish reasons, to be the object of Sherlock’s affections-- he wanted Sherlock to incontestably pine for him, to be enamoured past all point of reason.  John rubbed his eyes roughly, trying to clear these hopelessly romantic visions from his mind.  That wasn’t Sherlock’s nature to be so involved in another’s life, not unless they were already dead and he was solving some case. John’s thoughts pressed in on all sides as he tried to find where his puzzle piece fit.

    _Aren’t I just filling in for a skull?_

    John winced as he finished making his tea, noticing that he had automatically made one for Sherlock as well.  The man was already so ingrained in John’s routines that he couldn’t imagine going on without him.  He knew that having to leave or being left by Sherlock would break him.

    John took a deep breath to calm himself, picked up both steaming mugs, and went to face his fears.  There was no point in delaying the inevitable any further.  He reasoned that, in order to save them both the distress of endless guessing, they should go ahead and settle how they were going to clean up the mess they were making over this single case.  John came to the immediate conclusion that staying together-- in any capacity-- was in both of their best interests, but John had to prepare for the eventuality that he would be unable to convince Sherlock of this.

    John set both mugs down on the side table and tightened and flexed his left hand compulsively.  He moved closer to Sherlock until he was standing beside him, keeping his eyes on the wall in front of them without focusing on any one point in particular.  He gave Sherlock the opportunity to be the first to break the silence.

    Telepathically, he suggested, _How about, “Wow, John.  Last night was intense and crazy but kind of amazing, don’t you think?  Yes, we should definitely do that again very soon.”  Or maybe, “John, I must confess something to you.  I’ve been in love with you ever since you walked through that door at Bart’s with Mike Stamford.  You’re all I think about.  I want to be with you forever.  Let’s do something crazy, like get married and shag each other’s brains out daily.”  Come on, Sherlock.  Really anything along those lines would be a delightful conversation starter._

    “John?” Sherlock said on a drawn-out sigh.

    Overeager, John snapped to attention.  “Yes?”

    _This is it.  Maybe he’ll want to talk about what happened last night._

    “When do you think your friend will get back to you?”

    _Oh.  Of course he just wants to talk about the case.  It’s almost like I dreamt the whole thing._

    Then John looked at Sherlock’s face.  Really looked at him.  Though it was carefully hidden, John could still see uneasiness written on his features.  His lip was curled ever-so-slightly and his brow was almost inconceivably creased.  He looked almost… scared.

    John jutted his chin and relaxed his own brow, organising his features so his face was placid.  Knowing Sherlock would never actually mention last night’s activities without a momentous amount of goading, John felt pressured to force the subject. “Sherlock, I feel that I should tell you--”

    “John, really, there’s no need,” Sherlock interjected.  His eyes closed and he raised a hand as if to ward off John’s words.  “I know what you think you have to say but trust me, it’s not necessary.  It’s best for everyone if you just keep it to yourself.  You agreed that you wouldn’t let this case change our arrangements.”

    John blinked rapidly, agape.  “I really think you should let me finish, Sherlock,” he insisted, unwilling to give up the ghost.

    “John, please,” Sherlock implored, dragging each word out for a chilling effect.  

    Knowing that he had hit a wall, John backpedaled quickly, trying to find something to cling on to to keep Sherlock talking. “Fine,” he said briskly.  “I just thought you might want to know that I made you tea and it’s now getting cold.  It may interest you to know it shall continue to expel heat until you drink it.”

    Sherlock’s mouth, which had opened widely to protest, was left hanging open.  He pulled himself together quickly, a shiver passing through him like a lightning strike.  

    John smiled a little, pleased with himself, his head tilting to the side fondly at the sight of Sherlock flustered.  He licked his lips, noticing the movement had captivated Sherlock’s attention momentarily.

    Unable to stop himself from pushing, John asked, “What did you think I was going to say, Sherlock?”

    “It’s not important.  Where’s my tea?”

    “I thought you were supposed to be a detective,” John teased lightly. _I’m not going to forget what happened last night.  I sure as hell won’t let you “delete” it either, Sherlock.  I will wait as long as it takes to pull it out of you, brick by brick._

    But John was scared that if he pressed any harder just then, Sherlock would close off completely.  So rather than say anything more, he made himself available by sitting down in his chair.  Tea, he decided, was just the thing they needed.

    Sherlock, following his example, grabbed his own cup and crouched in his own chair, sipping the brew as he studiously watched John.  John noticed Sherlock staring and smiled warmly, endearments threatening to gush from his mouth: _Darling, dear heart, my sweet, love_.  When he saw the corner of Sherlock’s full mouth twitch ever so slightly his chest swelled with affection and he forgot how to breathe.  He desperately wanted to kiss Sherlock again, but he was still worried about scaring him off.  Rather than leap across the room John turned his attention back to his tea.  

    They both took their time finishing their drinks, the silence stretching like a dare, waiting to see who would give in first.   John made the first noise, his cup clinking loudly against the table as he set it aside.  

    Acting as the sacrificial lamb, John leaned forward in his chair and said, “So, why are we both awake so early?  Or does this still count as late?”

    Sherlock set his own cup aside and wrapped his arms around himself.  His posture was guarded but his face opened up, gratefully accepting John’s proposal of a change in subject.  “I’ve been trying to piece together all of the information Lestrade has passed to me so far from Mrs. Gibson.  Which is taxing beyond belief because not only do I not have nearly enough information to form a decent theory, the information I do have has been horribly tainted by Lestrade’s inadequate mental faculties.  Which translates roughly to: Everything I have is useless.  We need to get into The Palace of Eros and soon.  I need something to occupy my mind.”

    Sherlock inhaled sharply and fixed his gaze on some vague patch of the ceiling most decidedly.

    “So you really don’t have anything else on your mind at the moment?” John pried, detesting the _like me?_ he heard in the catch in his throat.

    “No, John, not really,” snapped Sherlock.

    John’s chin almost collided with his chest as he bit into his cheeks.  He wished then that he had just rolled over and gone back to sleep instead of getting up.  Lips protruding sharply, he grumbled, “Right, no.  Fine.  Forget I said anything.”  Without another word he sprang from his chair and quickly began making his way towards his own bedroom, leaving the dour detective to call after him.

    “John!  John, why are you going?”

    When he declined to answer, Sherlock began pursuit.  Sherlock called his name several times, demandingly reaching for John’s elbow only to be shrugged off.  John was refusing to let Sherlock’s pleas alter his ascent.  Still, Sherlock followed John all the way into the bedroom, managing to make it across the threshold before John could even try to close the door in his face.

    Feeling suddenly worn down, John flopped down onto his bed face first.  He groaned in weak protest when he felt Sherlock climb in next to him.

    “Sherlock, ge’roff my bed,” he grumbled into the duvet.

    Sherlock scoffed loudly.  “Well, that’s hardly fair, is it, John?  You’ve been allowed into my bed.  I believe this is generally referred to as a ‘compromise’.”

    John had to admit that he had a valid point but didn’t want him to know it.  “What do you want?” he asked, his lips brushing against rough sheets as he turned his face.  Hearing no reply, John rolled over to fully face the frustrating sleep-depriver currently taking up a large portion of his bed.  Sherlock was sprawled on his stomach, his chin jutting out onto his crossed arms.  John could feel him kicking the edge of the mattress in a steady rhythm.  For someone who claimed that they needed something to occupy their mind, he appeared to be incredibly lost in thought.  Sherlock became more and more distressed, his feet hitting the mattress with marked intensity, his pace increasing.

    Worry overcame John’s conniption and he reached out, caressing Sherlock’s back with a tenderness that threatened to undermine the careful platonic barriers they had erected.

    Sherlock halted his abuse of John’s bed and rolled over to glare at the doctor.  “Why do you do that?” he demanded.

    “Do what?”

    “Lately you keep stroking me,” Sherlock asserted.

    John rolled his eyes, trying frantically with forced casualness to shrug off Sherlock’s accusation.  “That makes you sound like a dog,” he complained.

    “Then why do you do it?”

    “I don’t know, Sherlock!” John barked, laughing derisively.  “I just do it.  I suppose I’m trying to comfort you, I don’t know.  If it bothers you, I’ll stop, just say the word.”

    Sherlock deliriously grabbed the front of John’s t-shirt.  When he spoke his voice was soothing, though it carried great urgency.

    “No, John, it’s fine.  I do find it calming.  I just don’t understand why.”

    Then John softened, his agitation melting as he remembered their previous discussion about physical contact.  He wondered, _If not for me, who would touch Sherlock?  Who would press their hands against him when he needed reassuring?  I can’t imagine Mycroft doing it, or Lestrade.  Mrs. Hudson might try but Sherlock would never be able to admit that he needed those touches enough to seek them out._

    With a placating voice John asked, “You don’t know why I do it, or you don’t understand why you like it?”

    Sherlock let go of John’s shirt and rolled over onto his back, away from John.  He closed his eyes and heaved a sigh.  “John, let’s not belabor the point any longer.”

    Disgruntled, John whispered, “Okay.  Whatever, Sherlock.  Can I go back to sleep now?  Or are you going to freak out again over every movement I make?”

    Sherlock sighed again, clearly fed up with John’s snarky retorts.  Finding the topic forlorn, the detective dropped his vocals to the pitch of melted chocolate and inquired, “How is your hand?”

    Hearing concern laced with seduction, John’s vision lurched.   _I can’t reach the surface when he pulls tricks like that.  I’d have better luck swimming through sand._  John examined his cut, astonished to realise he’d forgotten all about it.  The skin was tight and a pale crimson, but it didn’t appear to be inflamed.  A scab had formed, nicely sealing the wound.

    “Yeah, it looks okay,” he managed to reply, chest tight.

    “Good,” Sherlock responded curtly.  

    They lay in the quiet for several minutes.  Unable to endure the internal turmoil any further, John blurted, “Oh for fuck’s sake, Sherlock!  Are we going to talk about last night, or what?”

    Sherlock’s eyes flew open, his mouth a stricken grimace.

    Fumbling to lighten the anvil he had just dropped, John spouted, “I mean, I’m not upset or anything.  I just need to know that you’re okay.  It can be a lot to process.”  John was aware that he was most likely doing the exact opposite of anything helpful, but once he had started it just all came out.

    Sherlock threw an arm over his eyes, mortified.  “John, do please stop talking,” he said in a pained voice.

    John consented, closing his mouth tightly.  In lieu of completely appeasing Sherlock, he rolled closer to the long figure beside him.  When Sherlock made no protest at his proximity, John snuggled into his side, throwing an arm over Sherlock’s chest, a sudden swell of fatigue justifying the movement in his mind.

    Sherlock exhaled slowly before carefully wrapping his own arm around John’s form.  Encouraged, John nuzzled closer.  He cocked his hip, sliding his leg over Sherlock’s thigh.  Their legs weaved together in a pattern that seemed so natural that John’s heart threatened to jump out of his throat.  He shut his eyes, his body relaxing finally.  Just as John started to slip into the inevitable lure of sleep, he was aware of Sherlock’s lips pressing softly to the top of his head in a sweeping motion.  John succumbed to the pull.

    Sherlock waited for John’s breathing to deepen before shifting himself out from under the soldier’s smaller body.  It distressed him to be any distance away from John, but that was not more than the anguish he felt when he was around him. Sherlock, very carefully, with miniscule movements, tugged the duvet out from under John’s prone figure.  He knew that John would get cold without it and without his body heat.  Shivering would wake the doctor, Sherlock knew, and he needed John to stay asleep so he could think in relative peace.  When he was satisfied that John was long gone from consciousness, Sherlock took one last long look at the doctor before smoothing his hair and wrapping him in the thick blanket.  Asleep, John looked almost peaceful.  Sherlock was grateful that he did not have to monitor his facial expressions around a dormant John.  He grimaced sadly, wanting to rouse John and say… What, he didn’t know.  So instead, he left the room, closing the door soundlessly behind him.


	11. You Desired My Attention, But Denied My Affections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a nightmare. Sherlock distracts him by proposing an educational experiment.  
> (((((sexytimesensueawwwyisss)))))

    John dreamt restlessly that he was in a large room, surrounded by a sea of strangers.  Boisterous Baroque music muffled his hearing.  John had the unexplained sense that Sherlock was there too, somewhere in the crowd.  John’s heart was anxiously pounding, full of dizzy panic.  He needed to find Sherlock.  

    All at once, Sherlock was there, dancing in the arms of a faceless man in the middle of the vast floor.  John’s apprehension reached catastrophic levels when he saw Sherlock trapped in the middle of the menacing gathering.  He could do nothing but watch as Sherlock was passed around, nondescript men and women clutching at him greedily.  John began to push his way onto the floor.  

_No!_

    John was close enough to see the sheer terror on Sherlock’s pale face.  Sherlock’s mouth was open in a silent cry, his eyes impossibly wide.  John tried to reach out for him, but he was too far away.  

    _Sherlock!  No!  Oh, God, no.  They’re going to eat him alive.  Don’t touch him!  Don’t come near him!  He doesn’t like it!_

    Though John pushed and pushed, he could not get closer.  His feet were sticking like tar to the floor and a heavy weight fell on his shoulders.  He let out a scream that fell on deaf ears as the swarm engulfed Sherlock.  

    John twitched, whimpering as he awoke.  He was panting, drenched in sweat, delirious.  Heavily, his heart hammered in his chest.

    “John?” came Sherlock bursting through the door.  John felt the tears from the dream manifesting in his eyes.  

    _Sherlock is okay.  He’s here with me.  No one is going to take him away._

    With a baffled, worried look, Sherlock crossed the room in long strides to crouch at John’s side.

    “Are you alright?  You were having a nightmare.”

    John inhaled sharply through his nose and exhaled in shorts bursts through pursed lips, trying to regain his composure.  

    “John?” implored Sherlock, and the apprehension in his voice made John want to cry harder.  John closed his eyes, not knowing how to reply.  Gingerly, a hand began to stroke John’s face and smooth his hair.  When he felt he could breathe again, John spoke.

    “That feels nice,” he murmured.

    Sherlock continued to soothe him, humming tunelessly, until he calmed down.  John opened his eyes and looked at his flatmate’s face.  Sherlock’s eyes were soft, welcoming pools.  When Sherlock saw that John was more or less himself again he pulled away and stood.  

    “John, your friend Murray just rang.  He somehow managed to track down the password for us.  We need to be ready to go tonight.  We can’t put this off any longer.”

    John nodded, trying to mimic Sherlock’s business-as-usual manner.  Like he hadn’t just been comforted by his friend after waking from a nightmare concerning said “friend”.  

    John sat up and leaned stonily against the headboard, rubbing the chilled tears from his eyes groggily.  

    “Tonight?  That’s pretty sudden.  Are you sure you’re ready?”  John knew it was pointless to say anything contrary to Sherlock’s established plan, but the dream was unshakable, vividly denying John’s wishes that he could forget it.

    In a fraction of a second, Sherlock was on the bed, straddling John’s hips.  To John’s puzzled look he casually proposed, “Experiment?” before cupping John’s chin.  His other hand found the wall behind John’s head, holding him steady.  Forgetting his entire span of vocabulary, John was reduced to nodding dumbly as Sherlock leaned forward to kiss him tenderly.  They contemplated each other as they worked to procure the perfect angle.  John’s hands found purchase on Sherlock’s thighs and began to slide slowly towards his waist.  Sherlock breathed into John as he deepened the kiss and they both shut their eyes. Sherlock rocked forward and John grunted.

    Retreating hastily, Sherlock faltered.  “Is that wrong?”

    _Right_ , John thought.   _You’re supposed to be tutoring him for the case.  This is business, not pleasure._

    John then acknowledged to himself that the terms blessedly did not have to be mutually exclusive.

    Smiling at Sherlock, he advised, “No, that’s good.  Your body will tell you what to do, what feels right.  And the um, other person will do the same.  You just have to find your rhythm.  Here--” and John rolled Sherlock over onto his back so he could offer an example.  He wrapped Sherlock’s legs around his waist, but the new positioning, which should have been quite exciting, felt less than arousing with the shift in mood.

    John was taking the sexual education of Sherlock Holmes incredibly seriously, he realised.  He knew that Sherlock needed to be relaxed, and what seemed to relax Sherlock most was cold, hard facts.  If that was what Sherlock needed, then that was to be John’s methodology.

    “Right,” John began dryly.  “So, as you can see, from this angle-- what are you smiling at?”

    Sherlock giggled, _actually giggled_ , at being found out by the somber soldier.

    “Who are you and what have you done with John?  I’m afraid I’ll have to give you very poor marks for seduction technique.  I mean, you’re so...stiff.”

    “Well isn’t that part of the process?” John rejoined, with mock severity.  He complained, “And I thought I was supposed to be the teacher here.  Look, Sherlock, if you’re not going to take this experiment seriously…”

    Sherlock ceased teasing, a genuine smile retreating to hide just in the corner of his mouth.  John stopped moving.  With a frustrated sigh he rolled off of Sherlock, causing the leaner man to weakly protest, “No, John, wait.  I promise I’ll be deadly serious.  I’ll be the best pupil you ever had.  I’ll even correct you when you’re wrong.”

    John groaned to hide a laugh.  Then Sherlock was on top of him again, quick as lightning.  John had no time to protest before Sherlock was kissing him again, passionately.  

    John lost himself in those kisses.  He put his very being into them, exchanging lips as if he were exchanging sacred vows.  

    _How long has he had this power over me?  Has it always been there, I just hadn’t scratched the surface hard enough?_

    Sherlock threw him into a kaleidoscope of emotion.  Time was relative.  Space outside the rooms they were in together was non-existent, as far as John was concerned.  He could taste colour.  Up was down, and John was spiralling.  He had gone from frightful tears, to severe, to being torn limb from limb with desire with head-spinning haste.  It was all too much.  

    John knew he wanted something he couldn’t have, but he could have a close replica.  

    _Isn’t this fabricated relationship better than nothing at all?  And after all is said and done, when things return to the way they were, won’t it have been enough to have had this?_

    Their kisses turned wet and sloppy; John was drunk on them.  Grinding into him, Sherlock dropped his head onto John’s shoulder.  John trapped Sherlock’s hips between his hands and pushed and pulled, sliding his own pelvis along to the music they were making.  

    “Like this?” Sherlock groaned breathlessly as he moved in tandem with John.

    Skin burning, John’s arousal was painfully evident to them both.  “Yes, yes, God, yes,” he mouthed, unsure whether or not his vocal chords actually carried the sounds.

    “John?  What now?  What do you want?” Sherlock rasped.

    _This is perfect.  This moment is too perfect to have been manufactured and squandered for a ruddy case._

    John panted, his body arching into Sherlock’s more erratically.  “Sherlock-- what-- do you want?” he managed to enunciate. 

    Sherlock looked at him again, his eyes burning through John’s.  The doctor felt naked, uncovered, laid out fully before Sherlock’s all-seeing gaze.  “I want,” Sherlock paused to lick his lips, “I want...together.  I want to feel you against me, John.  I need your friction.”

    The words fell on John as welcome as a rainstorm in the desert.  Sherlock’s hands slipped under the bottom of John’s shirt, slowly at first, then moving quickly to liberate John’s upper body from the thin cotton before emancipating his own mortal being in the same fashion.

    John nodded reluctantly, trying to brace himself for what was to come.  He knew he was merely supplying a body for Sherlock to glean information from, but he decided that he could live with providing a living, breathing sex toy to the inquisitive mind sublimely straddling him.  He was more than willing to make that sacrifice.   _For science_ , he reiterated to himself.

    Sherlock’s eyebrows pulled together as if magnetised.  “That is-- I mean--” he sputtered, “This is something that… _you_ … want, too, right?”

    “Yes, definitely,” John declared.  He was impatient to get to the actual touching.  Looking up through his lashes he asked, “Are you ready?”

    Sherlock hesitated then, planting his palms against John’s pectoral muscles.  His fingers curled slightly and he looked away. “I think so.”  His voice was barely audible.  John leaned into him instinctively to try and hear better and Sherlock bit his lower lip but did not pull away.  Sherlock’s eyes slid over John’s face, his mouth an uncertain grimace.  

    “Yes,” he asserted.

    John had to kiss Sherlock then, he was so gorgeously perfect in that moment.  John nodded up at him as his pulled his boxers down as far as he could before he reached to help Sherlock lower the band of his sleep pants.  Clearly, Sherlock’s body was long past being ready.  John marveled at the sight of him, at the sight of them so close together.

    John despaired to himself, “Fuck me.”

    “I assumed that was going to coincide with a later lesson,” Sherlock tantalized, only half-joking.

    _Sherlock is going to be the death of me, and I suppose it’s best to just accept my fate with all the dignity I can muster._

    John was pulsing.  With a well-practiced hand, he thumbed the tip of Sherlock’s erection, eliciting a sharp hiss from his dark-haired incubus.  He took his time spreading Sherlock’s leaking slickness over the detective’s shaft fully before administering the same attention to his own throbbing erection.  When they were both gasping for air, John grabbed one of Sherlock’s hands with his own and pulled it towards his own flushed member.  He wrapped his fingers around the base of Sherlock’s now quavering desire.  

    “Like this,” he said gently, indicating for Sherlock to touch him in the same way.  

    Sherlock obliged and John thought he was going to black out.  Sherlock’s large hand made him look much smaller than his own did, but he couldn’t think of anything less important.  Instead, he reveled in the fact that _Sherlock was touching him_.

    John resumed the lesson by using his free hand to draw Sherlock down so that he was lined up directly against John’s own fervent flesh.  John moaned and a loud hiss of breath escaped Sherlock at the contact.  Almost as an afterthought, John released Sherlock and reached over, quickly digging through his nightstand drawer.  Finding his remaining lubricant, he popped the cap open and drizzled it over them generously.  When the bottle was emptied, John slicked them quickly and carefully fit them both, pressed together, almost entirely within Sherlock’s long fingers.  His own hands gripped Sherlock’s backside, ready to guide.    

    “Now, think of something distracting.  Anything at all.  Like rugby or the weather report or really anything like that.  It should help you prolong the, uh, experience,” John raggedly suggested (to himself as much as to Sherlock).

    Sherlock still had the wherewithal to be affronted.  “Why would I want to think about rugby at a time like--” and John slid against him.  

    Sherlock gave a high-pitched whine then rapidly began enumerating any and all statistics he could bear in mind.

    John thrust against him again, slowly, taking his time and letting Sherlock get acclimated to the sensation.  He wiggled a little to one side, lining them up better and made another attempt.  

    _Brilliant._

    “...seven hundred and ninety-fou-- agghh.  Followed by an increase, an increase, increase in…”

    John picked up the pace, coaxing Sherlock to keep up.

    “...results show a thirty-eight point two five six three percent decrease when-- oh, God, John-- naught point five six four six combined with naught point seven-- unh-- four three seven-- oh, God-- five six two five will produce--”  What, John would never hear.  Sherlock yelped loudly and bucked against him.  Warmth plastered between their bodies as John followed immediately after.

    _This must be what going mad is like_ , John mused, basking in the afterglow.  Sherlock rested his head again in the crook of John’s neck, his hot breath gently berating the sated soldier.

    Sherlock used John’s cotton shirt to clean them off then he nodded curtly and pecked his lips to John’s cheek, adding, “Thank you for the invaluable experience.  That was very… enlightening.”  Without further ado, Sherlock climbed backwards off of the bed, pulling up his sleep pants as he turned tail and fled the room.

    _What the fuck does that even mean?_

    John, unwillingly alone, closed his eyes and began storing as much of their encounter as he could in his mind.  He wanted to replay every detail over and over, until he finally had convinced himself that it _had_ happened.

    “Sorry, Sherlock,” he whispered to the walls.  “I wasn’t quite finished with the lesson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Bonus challenge: The first person to crack my little easter egg in this chapter and correctly post it in the comments gets a prompt of their choice from me roughly 1k-3k words, more if I get really into it. I prefer Johnlock but I also don't mind other Sherlock ships, I also watch Supernatural, Doctor Who, various other things.)  
> Good luck!  
> Hint: It's like the lottery... it's all about the numbers...
> 
> Bonus hint: it's a cipher. And you can use something that you use everyday to crack it, although most people don't use it the same way when messaging.
> 
> CONGRATS TO GUEST SCRABBLER FOR WINNING THIS!   
> Brilliant efforts anyone that tried!


	12. You Keep Waiting to Save What We Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confronts Sherlock.   
> A mysterious parcel arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay of this chapter.  
> I was ill but am starting to feel better finally.  
> Thanks for all the patience. I will try and move forward as soon as it is ready!

 

    John put both feet on the floor and took a deep breath.

_No_ , he decided, _Sherlock is not going to just walk away from me_.

    He reached for the band of his boxers, intending to readjust them, before deciding to be daring by slipping them off completely.

_Let's see how he handles **that**._

    Summoning all of his confidence, John walked out of his bedroom and down the stairs, bereft of boxers. He made sure to step with his full weight all the way down, imagining each thud putting his intended victim more and more on edge. When he reached the landing he kicked the door the rest of the way open and strutted into the common room. Sherlock stared at the triumphant entrance, slack-jawed.

    "Um?" the detective fumbled, eyebrows raised.

    John kept his face neutral, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Nope, just a normal day at 221B. After a small wave he proceeded down the corridor towards Sherlock's room. Once he was out of sight, his body convulsed in silent laughter over Sherlock's baffled expression.

    John took a quick shower, purposefully using Sherlock’s soap and shampoo in an effort to keep Sherlock’s scent on him, and briefly contemplated walking out in the nude again. Reason (but mostly the chill in the air) prevailed and he wrapped in a towel, throwing on a robe for good measure. He found Sherlock where he had left him, sitting on the sofa sifting through a pile of papers. John sat close to him, pressing his thigh intentionally against Sherlock's lankier leg. John ran a hand roughly through his damp hair and leaned over Sherlock's shoulder to see what he was doing. Sherlock cleared his throat loudly and shifted in his seat. When John made no sign that he was going to move Sherlock sighed.

    "So..." Sherlock began.

    John, forgetting to play coy, cut him off. "What is all that?" he asked, reaching out to pick up one of the many typed pages Sherlock had been pawing through.

    Sherlock pulled the paper from John's hand before he could make out what was written.  "Careful, they're in order," he reprimanded.

    John pulled the paper back, stating, "You and I both know you have all of these memorised. Keep your knickers on."

    "Well, you're certainly one to practice what you preach," remarked Sherlock.

    John reached out a free hand and cheekily pinched Sherlock's arm. In protest, Sherlock yelped dramatically and moved to return the favour. Thinking he was moving in to snag back the paper, John moved the sheet of A4 high over his head, giggling as he leaned away. Sherlock decided to play along, tackling John into the sofa and reaching for the paper, which was well-within his long-armed grasp.  John smelled like Sherlock, and their mingling, emboldened fragrance stirred John’s blood.  John saw the mirrored flush of exertion on Sherlock’s sloped cheekbones as the detective lay on the giggling doctor for a few moments, face to face, the paper between long fingers but not taken. John stopped laughing and swallowed, his throat catching.

    "Give it back," Sherlock bewitchingly scolded.

    "Make me," John dared, thrusting his jaw forward suggestively.

    In one quick motion, Sherlock licked the side of John's face from jaw to temple. Alarmed, John pulled away. Sherlock had shocked him into releasing the paper, and he used his now-free hand to wipe at the thin layer of saliva on his face.

    "Ew! I just took a shower, I didn't need a bath. Though now I might," he groaned.

    Sherlock grinned and leaned back in. John, expecting to be licked again, shut his eyes tight and pulled a face. When soft lips met his skin rather than a moist tongue, he relaxed, leaning into the pressure.

    "I believe this constitutes flirting, does it not?" Sherlock asked, pulling away.

    "Well, maybe if you're a school child." John smiled but Sherlock's face fell, indicating to John that their fun was over.  John tried to smile more broadly, hoping Sherlock would catch the expression and return it.  “Don’t be like that, Sherlock.  I was only teasing.”

    Sherlock rolled his eyes and frowned exaggeratedly, but John was still sore from being abandoned earlier in the morning, so he had no patience to stroke Sherlock’s ego.

    Sherlock sat up and shrugged his shoulders, his attention seemingly back on his papers as he quibbled, "Fine, then. How do normal human adults flirt?"

    John rubbed his eyes and said, "They have a conversation. Throw out some compliments. Like 'your hair is lovely' or 'I love that shirt, where'd you get it?'  You know, nice things that will make that person feel good about themselves."

    "Why are you angry with me?" Sherlock hurled like a cricket cow shot, throwing John for a loop.

    "I'm not," John scoffed, the accusation proving to be self-fulfilling.

    "Don't lie to me, John."  Sherlock was telling, not asking.

    John took a deep breath and propped himself up on his elbows, his legs still dangling awkwardly over the seat of the sofa. Sherlock had once again pinpointed tension John thought he had been secretly holding in his body.  This made John tetchy, which is why he over-enunciated, "I'm not angry, Sherlock. I thought I was just 'enlightening'."

    "I see," Sherlock drawled. "You're upset because I left?  What was I supposed to do?"

    John's carefully tucked away insecurities came flaring back. He snapped, "You were supposed to stay!"

    John slumped back down, the weight of his admission bowling him over. After a few deep breaths he said softly, "Sorry, Sherlock. I don't know where that came from. Just ignore me."  John braced himself for Sherlock to swirl into one of his epic sulks, pushing John away and refusing to speak to him for days.

    Sherlock's weight shifted the cushions as he turned back towards John. Instead of shoving John off of his usual sulk-spot, Sherlock moved one of John's legs with steady hands, positioning them in a way that made it easier for him to slide closer between them. Resolutely, Sherlock lay on John's chest, his cheek meeting John's sternum. He puffed a breath of air and mumbled, "If you wanted me to stay, you should have said so."

    Still upset, John's hands never-the-less stretched into Sherlock's curls, knotting his fingers in fringe. "You never really gave me a chance to say anything. Look, forget it, Sherlock. I guess I am just stressed out from my nightmare still. Besides, couples fight so it's good for you to get some practice squabbles under your belt."

    "This is far from the first row we've had, John. Far from the first row this week, even. Luckily you are infinitely patient with me."

    John scoffed at the ceiling and jeered,"Wait, are you trying to compliment me?"

    After an abeyance, Sherlock said, "No, there are much better things I could say if I were trying to compliment you."

    John pulled up Sherlock’s face so the man was looking directly at him as he issued a formal challenge by raising his eyebrows unconvinced.  Sherlock was quick with, "You have the metaphorically biggest and bravest heart of anyone I have ever met."

    John found himself speechless at the genuine flattery. Sherlock’s eyes were serious, and John was calmed by them.  He knew deep down that Sherlock had meant every word and his chest swelled. He didn't know what to say so he just stayed where he was, rubbing circles into Sherlock's scalp and feeling the detective breathe against him.

    After a time they quietly sat up, the moment far from forgotten but no longer being acknowledged. Sherlock turned his attention back to the papers, smoothing out the one he and John had crumpled in their play before placing it where it belonged in the stack. John leaned over towards the table, carefully hovering just a few inches away from Sherlock's shoulder, resisting the gravitational pull that coerced him constantly.

    Licking his lips, John squinted as he read the sheet Sherlock was displaying.  After only a few sentences he realised what they were reading.  “These are love letters, Sherlock!  Quite randy, too.”

    Sherlock’s eyes swiveled in their sockets to glare at John for interrupting his concentration.  

    “Yes, John.  These were given to me by Grace Gibson.  Do keep up.”

    John scowled and considered pinching Sherlock again.  Instead he said, “Well, do you have any important intel you would care to share with your partner?”

    Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed to let the entire flat know how impossible John was being.  

    “Honestly, there’s not much to go on.  These letters are typed, as you can see, but they aren’t the originals.  Certain parts have been edited or omitted it would seem.  Unfortunately, this was the best she could offer.”  John nodded along and Sherlock continued, “What I can say with some measure of conviction is that The Palace of Eros, as the name suggests, lends itself to a classical theme.  There are several names mentioned that give credence to the hypothesis that we will need false identities.”

    John rubbed his knees energetically and rose to his feet.  He crossed the room, swept up his laptop, and sat without grace in his armchair.  “Right, let me help by working on that.  Anything else?”

    Sherlock shook his head barely, his attention elsewhere.  John, grateful for the distraction quickly embarked on a web search of Greek and Roman mythology.

    They sat like that for several minutes, the only sounds the rustling of papers and slow, rhythmic keyboard clicks.  John’s concentration was only interrupted when he saw Sherlock’s hand snake out, predatory, to snatch up his mobile; his fingers texted thunderously before John could blink.  Then, with a loud plastic snap Sherlock sent his message, throwing his mobile atop the pile of papers before running his hands wildly through his dark mane.  He rolled onto his feet and followed John’s earlier trail to the shower.

    The water hissed then slapped the tub base in a steady assault.  John took a deep breath, weighing the benefits and setbacks of taking two showers within an hour.  He decided to leave the outcome up to chance.

_If I choose names before he’s done_ , he reasoned, _Then I’ll go back there_.

    Despite working at his maximum speed, the shower cut off just as John clicked his laptop closed.  

_That’s the final straw.  I’m signing up for typist lessons_.

    John set his laptop aside and thrummed his fingers against the chair arms, sexually vexed.  He thought about the names he had painstakingly picked out for each of them, feeling more and more confident of his choices.  They were perfect, and John was almost embarrassed by what his personal choice said about him.

    “John?” came a distracted, dismembered voice from Sherlock’s bedroom.

    John paused, his pulse drumming in his ears, before answering, “Yes?”

    “You should get ready.  Smart dress.  Best you’ve got.”

    “Okay.” said John, stressing each syllable.

    John went to his room to look through the few suits he owned.  Sherlock (who wouldn’t stop rearranging John’s clothes by colour) had pushed all of John’s suits to the back of the closet.  After a few moments of consideration, John chose the ensemble he thought Sherlock would most approve of.  

    He pulled out the charcoal-grey suit and set it on his rumpled bed before going back to get his blue-striped button-down.   Lastly, he pulled out his Midnight-blue tie, knowing it would bring out his eyes and hoping that Sherlock would notice.

    He got dressed carefully, remembering to put on a nicer pair of pants as he might be required to disrobe at some point in the evening.  When he had finished, he nervously made his way back to the common room.  It was a good thing that he had taken deep breaths all the way down the stairs, because at the sight of Sherlock all the air left the building.

    Sherlock was dressed in a modest manner, but John was affected prodigiously.  He wore his obsidian Spencer Hart suit, with the shirt that blended right in.  The top two buttons had been left open, exposing creamy flesh that made John’s mouth water.

    They eyed each other silently.  John bit back all the compliments he wanted to drown Sherlock in, remembering the last time they had gone out.  He wasn’t about to say something nice to have Sherlock turn around and throw it back in his face again.

    Sherlock’s mouth opened, then closed again.  His brow furrowed and his lips crushed together.  The corner of John’s mouth twitched as he raised an eyebrow questioningly.  Confused and thinking Sherlock had finally malfunctioned, John looked away, thinking, _Maybe he expected something classier.  I should go change._

    Luckily, the doorbell buzzed just then, rescuing them both from having to speak.  Hearing the short-long buzzes, Sherlock unbuttoned his suit jacket with one hand and made a mad dash past John for the stairs.  Dangerously, he hurtled down the steps at full velocity, leaving John with a warning cry lodged in his throat.  As quickly as he had left, Sherlock returned with a small black box in his hands.  Sherlock brushed past John and sat to open the mystery delivery.  

    “What is that?” John asked, wariness creeping into his tone.

    “Don’t worry, it’s not a bomb,” scoffed Sherlock as he removed the lid.  Inside the box were three smaller black boxes, a rectangular and medium-sized box and two small identical cubes.  None of them were labeled.

    John’s skin prickled at the back of his neck.  The two smaller boxes looked like ones he had seen in several shop windows.  

    “Sherlock?” he drew out apprehensively.

    Sherlock placed the longer box in his inside breast pocket, ignoring John.  He set the original package on the table and lifted out the two small boxes, cupping one in each hand.  He gave one of them to John, who accepted it more out of habit than desire, and opened his own.  John watched Sherlock, but the detective had his large hands curled around the box, making the contents impossible to view.

    “Wait,” Sherlock ordered, closing his box again.  “I have yours.”

    John traded him warily.  He examined the box that Sherlock had already opened, trying to ignore what he imagined it contained.  With a deep breath, he opened the lid.  Inside the box, was yet another box, but this one was a deep Sangria-red velvet.  

    John’s jaw dropped and he let the box lid slip from his fingers.  Unable to look at Sherlock, John opened the velvet case.   Nestled inside a small slit protruded a single gold band.

    John’s heart dropped into his stomach.  His mouth moved and he struggled to express himself in words.  Eventually he blurted, “What the fuck, Sherlock?”

    “You don’t like it,” Sherlock concluded dryly, standing tall with a slight frown.

    “Just…” John stammered.  “What the actual FUCK, Sherlock.”

    “I thought it would help us to accessorise a little.  You know, so everyone knows that we are definitely in a serious, committed relationship,” Sherlock attempted to calmly explain.

    “‘ _Accessorise a little_ ’?  Really?  These are fucking wedding bands, I mean, fuck!”

_Does Sherlock really understand the significance of what he’s just given me?_

    Sherlock gritted his teeth and bemoaned, “Yes, John, and though I never tire of your increasingly diverse command of the English language, we really must be going.”  

    John closed his mouth, his jaw set, and carefully pulled the ring out of the box as if he expected it to be hot to the touch.  He examined the smooth gold, noticing a shine inside the band.  Upon closer inspection, he let out a gasp.  Elegantly engraved in the precious metal was one word: Sherlock.

    He looked at Sherlock, who was close again, this time with a new silver band around his finger.    Flabbergasted he asked, “And does yours say--”

    “Sentimental things, yes, John.  We really must leave or we will arrive offensively late.”

    When John’s body refused to move of its own accord, Sherlock crowded his space.  Roughly, the velvet case was thrown aside.  Sherlock plucked the ring from John’s grasp and gingerly, but quickly, put it on his finger, not meeting his gaze.  Then Sherlock grabbed John’s other hand and flipped it over to examine his palm.  He tutted once and left the room, returning with a plaster.  John’s cut had almost healed but apparently not fast enough for Sherlock.  When he was finished, Sherlock ran his hands down his own body, smoothing his suit.  John could only stare as Sherlock then reached out a hand and tugged lightly on John’s tie.  

    “Perfect,” Sherlock murmured and John felt heat rise in his cheeks. Sherlock nodded sharply, as if denying that he had been the one to have spoken.  

    “Thank you,” John whispered, wanting Sherlock to lean in, closing the small distance, and kiss him.  

    John was severely disappointed when the detective moved away to grab his coat instead.  He handed John his anorak and together they moved down to the street and into the first cab.  


	13. I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pair stop off for a romantic dinner before furthering their journey. It's just the typical dinner.... definitely nothing out of the ordinary going on here....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless Chucksauce and imdressinuplikeacat for their patience and willingness to read my writing over and over.  
> Bless you, reader, for your patience in waiting for the next installments.  
> I am going to work hard for you.  
> <3

    As soon as they climbed into the cab and directions were given to the driver, Sherlock slid as close to his door as he could comfortably manage, leaving a gaping space between them that would have been awkward for John to try and decrease.   Rather than make an attempt, John took the opportunity to think free of Sherlock’s distracting body heat or disarming gaze.   When he was sure that Sherlock’s attention was elsewhere, John pulled his hand out of his pocket slowly and examined the gold ring.  He was entranced by the shine of the band reflecting the lights outside as the cab drove through the congested city streets.  Several times, John opened his mouth to protest that the ring was far too much, that it took their little charade much too deep into waters they shouldn’t be wading in, but no sound would come out.  Somewhere along the way, his outrage had dissipated into disbelief.  To think, even for a moment, that Sherlock had purposefully picked out wedding bands for the two of them with deeper intent, was inconceivable.  

_The case, John.  Remember the dead man and his grieving widow?  This is all for them.  Not for you to live out some fantasy of a different life,_ he forcefully reminded himself.  

    John’s thoughts yo-yoed between hope and realism for several minutes.  Before John knew it, they had arrived at Angelo’s.   Sherlock got out of the cab quickly, his door shutting loudly and startling John back to reality.  John shook himself and climbed out as Sherlock paid the driver.  Sherlock held open the door of the cozy Italian restaurant, but would not meet John's eyes as the shorter man slid past him, which John greatly appreciated in his unsteady mental state.

    Despite his internal affirmations that this wasn't an actual date, John was still in shock and could do nothing save follow the pattern that habit had designed.  He heard only static when Angelo greeted them with his usual enthusiasm.  John assumed Angelo had noticed the rings because the man pulled both himself and Sherlock into one gruff hug.  Champagne was sent to the table.  Sherlock ordered alfredo for John, who could barely keep up with how time seemed to whip quickly around him.   John sat quietly, examining the gold ring on his finger.  Around the corner of their usual table at Angelo's, Sherlock examined John.  When the alfredo arrived, John sat with his fork in his hand, able to do nothing except continue to stare at the ring on his finger.

    “John?  John!” Sherlock barked with concern, earning the attention of a few of the closest tables.

    John shook his head, slowly growing more aware of his surroundings.  He wasn’t sure how long Sherlock had been calling his name, but judging by the irritated look he was given, it had been quite a while.

    “Sorry.  What?” John asked, still dazed.

    “Are you even listening to me?”

    John blinked languidly.  He licked his lips and apologised again.

    “As I was saying,” stressed Sherlock, “Hopefully this won’t take too long.  A few days, tops.”

    With that, Sherlock had John’s full attention.  “Just a few more days?” John asked, feeling ice in the pit of his stomach.  He set his fork down, his appetite completely gone.

    Sherlock stared at him, baffled.  “Yes, John,” he carefully explained.  “Sooner than that if I can manage it.”  Sherlock tilted his head to the side and inquired, “Why?  Do you want the killer, if there is one, to roam free a bit longer?”

    John shook his head seriously.  “No.  No.  I want to be able to put Grace Gibson at peace.  I was just surprised, is all.”

    “Right,” Sherlock concluded, laying the matter to rest.  He reached towards John’s hand and the doctor flinched nervously.  

    John thought about the last time Sherlock had taken his hand, how he had almost _literally_ taken his hand in marriage.  The idea of being married to Sherlock blossomed unbidden in his mind, filling him with an addictive panic.   John wanted to feel the rush of being able to call Sherlock his, truly and fully.  Next to him, Sherlock pulled his hand back a fraction before reaching forward again and plucking up John’s neglected fork.  John let out a breath that carried his frightening disappointment.  

    With a swirl of his wrist, Sherlock expertly wrapped pasta around the fork’s prongs.  With a flourish he ate his catch before attacking John’s plate again.  This time, however, he held the fork in front of John’s mouth.  

    “What are you doing?” John asked, embarrassed at being treated like a child in public.  He looked around just in time to see Angelo wink knowingly at him.

    Sherlock waggled the pasta in front of John’s face and grinned tauntingly.  

    “Come on.  You need to eat, John.  You let me feed you up during every other case.”

    For a moment, John let himself wonder if Sherlock was actually being serious.  Sherlock winked at him and smiled in a way that lit up his eyes.   _No_ , John decided, _definitely not serious.  Not even close_.  Only to make him hopefully drop the act, John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s, guiding the utensil into his mouth and removing the alfredo as he leaned back.  He began to chew slowly when Sherlock added impudently, “Besides, I just love to watch you masticate.”

    John nearly choked.

    Quickly, he chugged his flute of champagne while Sherlock laughed at his own joke.  Still not quite in the clear, John glared as he grabbed Sherlock’s flute and downed that as well.

    “Easy,” Sherlock said in an attempt to alleviate John’s fluster as he handed him back his fork.  "Are you alright?"

    John took it, but didn’t eat right away.  “Seriously?” he chided.  “We’re in public.  What if someone misheard you?”

    “People often do.  No matter.”

    “And that doesn’t bother you?” John argued.

    Sherlock met his gaze and forcefully answered, “No, John.  And why should it?  For all intents and purposes, we are together. I don’t give a flying fig what people think about that.”

    John snickered deliriously, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling, and Sherlock stared at him.  When his pained chuckles died down, John leaned in and said earnestly, “Remember when we first met and you brought me here?”

    “I’ll never forget.”  Sherlock’s tone was flat and distant.

    “I thought you were barking.”

    “Really?  I thought you were much smarter than your brain was allowing you to be.”

    John smiled as that night, their first stake out, came rushing back into his mind so clearly.  

    “You ran out of here like the place was on fire.  You were so focused on the cab that you ran right in front of another car, do you remember?”

    Sherlock grimaced a little, as if feeling the pain on a massive delay.  Then his face lit up.  “Yes, and as I recollect, you came right after, apologising for me the whole way.”

    John blushed and grinned down at his plate.  “Yes, a bad habit I never seemed to drop.”

    They were quiet for a long moment.  Then, shyly, Sherlock nudged John’s foot with his toe.

    “John--”

    “More champagne?” interrupted Angelo cheerfully.  Without waiting for a reply he filled both of their flutes, beaming proudly from ear to ear.

    John’s eyes never left Sherlock as he smiled kindly in Angelo’s direction though he wanted to scream.  He was certain that Sherlock was about to share something important with him, though he wasn’t sure what it could be.  

    When Angelo finally gave them privacy again, Sherlock shifted uneasily.

    “John, our car will be here soon.  I suggest you stop by the restroom as it’s a long drive and I’d rather not stop along the way.  If you’ll excuse me.”

    John turned his attention to his meal as Sherlock removed himself from the table.  John had only managed a few bites before his mobile went off.  If he had bothered to check, he would have seen his phone flash the warning, “Unknown Caller.”

    “Hullo?”

    An icy but familiar voice clawed through the line, violating John’s eardrum.  It hissed, “Remove yourself from this case or else.”

    John’s breath hitched at the threat and he looked around wildly.  His voice was steady as he whispered, “What the hell do you want?”

    There was a chillingly derisive laugh on the other end of the line.  “Really, no need to get nasty.  I’m just trying to look out for your best interests.   _Both_ of your best interests.  So I suggest you show some manners, Doctor Watson.”

    “Right, I’m hanging up now.”  John wasn’t going to be intimidated so easily, especially when someone couldn’t bother to threaten him to his face.  

    “Wait!”

    Against his better judgement, John paused.

    The voice quickly continued, in a purr, “You are playing with fire, John.  Just see that no one gets burned.”

    John rolled his eyes at Sherlock, who had returned to the table.  Seeing John’s furrowed brow had brought interested panic to the detective’s face.  With eyes wide, he mouthed, “Who is it?”

    John shrugged him off, putting his hand over the mouthpiece and soundlessly whispering back, “Who do you think?”

    His face relaxing into its normal nonchalance, Sherlock snatched John’s mobile and sneered into the mouthpiece, “Fuck off, Mycroft.”  With that he ended the call.

    John’s mouth dropped in shocked amusement.   _I wonder what they’re fighting about now?_

    “What did he say to you?” Sherlock demanded.

    John shrugged again.  “Oh, you know.  The usual vague and overly-dramatic ‘Stay away’ I usually get.”

    “Nothing else?” Sherlock pressed, leaning forward.

    “No.  Why?”

    Sherlock pointedly looked out the window past John.  “No reason.  Our car will be here soon.  I suggest you hurry.”

    John took the hint and ran to the loo, all the while wondering what Mycroft was attempting to warn him of.   _This case must be more dangerous than we think if it has Mycroft’s attention._

    When John returned to the table, the car was, as promised, waiting outside.  Sherlock had already put on his coat and was holding John’s for him.  Though Angelo never charged them, John tossed several quid on the table, grabbed his phone, and left, waving to Angelo.  

    The black car was posh and nondescript, blatantly betraying its source to John.  He had been in so many of these cars over the last few years that he had lost count.

    “Mycroft?  Again?” he said, shaking his head.

    Sherlock frowned, his lower lip jutting as he squinted at their ride.

    “He owes us a few favours.”

    “Right,” John said, though it was really more of a question.  

    Sherlock climbed in and John slid onto the seat right next to him.  John pulled the door shut just as they pulled away from the kerb.

    Sherlock stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles.  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his head back.  He looked well-prepared for a kip, though the sun had set only an hour before.  John made no complaint.  He was used to Sherlock nodding off at strange hours, catching only the start of much-needed sleep.

    John leaned closer to Sherlock, his body craving the nearness.  Sherlock grumbled a little but leaned over so that his head was resting on John’s shoulder.  John smiled to himself, shifting just enough to make them both a little more comfortable.  

    The car joined traffic on the M1 and John settled himself in fully and dozed off.

    A bump in the road woke John hours later.  For a moment he panicked, unsure of where he was.  He was on his side, his cheek warm.  He sat up, rubbing his eyes.  He had fallen into Sherlock’s lap at some point in their journey.

    John stretched as best as he could in the cramped space.  Looking out the window, John was at a complete loss.  

    “Where are we, Sherlock?” he croaked, his voice heavy with sleep and disuse, prompting him to clear it loudly.

    “Just past Sheffield.  We only have about an hour left.”  Sherlock answered automatically in a monotone as he continued the task of jotting notes in his small moleskin notebook.  In the blue glow of the car’s interior lighting, John thought he looked otherworldly, his hair an impending storm over an icy sculpture.  

    John, to give himself something to do, began tidying his now rumpled suit.  When he finished, he stretched again and yawned loudly.  “Well,” he said brightly, “That was a lovely kip.  Did you get much sleep?”

    Sherlock continued writing, a scowl on his face.  John watched him, waiting for an answer.  He waited much longer than he would have for any other person before looking out the window again.

    “Well, I’m glad I got the rest,” John said, continuing the conversation by himself.  “I wonder where we’re going.  We’re still on the M1, near Sheffield, with another hour so… Leeds?  I guess it’s discreet if they are from London or somewhere else.  It is Leeds, right?”

    Sherlock groaned and set his pad in his lap.  With a voice strained with sarcasm he said, “Yes, John.  Brilliant deduction, now do please shut up.  I’m trying to concentrate.  Oh, but before I forget: We need to remain in character from here on out.  You never know who could be watching.”

    John, with mock sincerity, said in a placating tone, “Alright, there.  You don’t have to be so bloody rude.  You and Mycroft both could stand a few more lessons in common decency.  Rudeness must be a genetic Holmes trait.”

    Sherlock glared at John before returning to his notes, writing aggressively.  John sat in silence, feeling a victory, and watched Sherlock for the rest of the drive.

    Eventually, the car pulled in front of a massive white house with marble columns.  The place was well-lit and seemed equal parts ominous and intriguing.  The driver, whom John had forgotten about, came around and opened Sherlock’s door for him. He stepped out gracefully, John struggling behind him.  Sherlock pulled off his coat, tossing it curiously back into the car as he stood there assessing the house and the grounds.  John followed his lead and removed his own coat, shivering as the driver returned to his seat.  Seconds passed as Sherlock catalogued the environment.  When John shivered again, Sherlock snapped to attention finally.

    Grabbing John’s arm, Sherlock led them both to a large black door.  John’s mouth hung open when he saw the large knocker was in the form of a minotaur head.  “This must be the right place,” John mumbled, his teeth chattering.  Sherlock took the knocker in hand and brought it sharply down against the wood varnish: once, twice, a pause, then thrice.

    Before he could release the grotesque bit of metal, the door was opened.  

    An old man with wispy white hair and a plain suit welcomed them into the vestibule.  In a crisp but detached voice he asked, “Password?”  John was reminded of every nondescript butler on every stereotypical television show.  

    “Pleiades,” Sherlock replied with confidence.  

    The assumed butler glanced them over with disinterest before turning away.  “Follow me,” he commanded with a drawl.  

    John was anxious.  He had no idea where they were or what was waiting for them. Not wanting to chance separation, John reached for Sherlock’s hand.  Sherlock glanced at him in surprise but held on tightly.  Together they followed their shuffling guide, whose hair shone like a will-o-the-wisp in the dimly lit corridor.  

    After several twists and turns, the butler rapped his knuckles against an unmarked door before they entered.  They found a man sitting at a marble desk.  His office was so brightly lit it looked like heaven compared to the rest of the place, complete with a soothing, trickling waterfall on one wall.  

    The man stood as he warmly greeted them.  He was a few inches taller than John, with a compact build.  

    “Gentlemen, welcome to my home.  Please sit,” he said, gesturing to the loveseat facing his desk.  His voice had the barest hint of a foreign lilt. _French?_ John assumed.

    Sherlock and John unbuttoned their jackets and sat as they were asked as the man returned to his own chair.  He looked them over carefully, his eyes fixing on their still-clasped hands.  “It’s always a pleasure to see new faces wanting to join.”

    “The pleasure’s all ours, “ said Sherlock warmly.

    “Well, that is certainly the anticipated outcome.”  The man paused and grinned at Sherlock in a way that made John see red, before sparing John only a moment’s attention and continuing.  “What brings you here?”

    John licked his lips, watching as Sherlock answered, “My partner and I have been together for several years.  I am the first man he has been with, and he still has an interest in women.  And I have some interest in...expanding our repertoire, as one might say.  Your Palace was a godsend that joyously fell into our laps.”

    The man smiled, but something cold was clearly steering the ship.  “I received your paperwork.  And your gracious donation. Everything seems to be in order, but--”

    John’s instincts screamed ‘danger’ and he squeezed Sherlock’s hand.  His legs tensed, ready to spring into action.  He didn’t bother trying to remember the route to the exit, he knew Sherlock would know it.  The old man was no real threat: They could still escape.  

    “What seems to be the problem?” Sherlock added, his voice utter innocence.

    “I am just wondering, to what do I owe the pleasure for such a timely visit from the illustrious Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson?”

    Sherlock froze, his expression going blank.  He tried to break free of John’s grip, but John held on resolutely, thinking fast.

    “It seems we are at a disadvantage,” he said slowly.  

    The man sneered.  “You didn’t think I would recognise you without the hat?  I’m not a fool.”

    John reached across with his free hand and stroked Sherlock’s knee, proudly displaying the ring on his finger.  “You, see, sir,” he said timidly.  “That’s why we’ve come all this way.  Haven’t we, dear?” he looked at Sherlock at the last part, eyes wide.  

    Sherlock tensed but affirmed what John was saying.

    Relaxing a bit, John continued, “We’re not open about our relationship yet.  It’s such a risk, with what we do.  And you know how awful the bloody press can be.  One sniff of this and they’d be all over us.  As if they needed proof.”

    The man still looked unconvinced, but he was slowly nodding his head.

    John looked at Sherlock affectionately, completely selling it with very little effort on his part.  “I just don’t know what I would do without him.  We just needed a little time to ourselves.  A little break from London.”

    John smiled at Sherlock, who volleyed an embarrassed grin right back, like the pro he was.

    “Oh,” Sherlock said, “If you’ll still allow us to participate, I have a little something extra for your being more than discreet.” Sherlock used his free hand to pull the last black box from inside his jacket.  

    The man said, “Really, that’s not necessary,” as he accepted the box nevertheless.  He opened the lid and John saw a stack of pound notes.

    “This is… most generous,” the man replied cooly.  “I understand your particular situation.  You have somehow convinced the romantic in me.  You may stay.”

    John released the breath he had been holding.  

    The man opened a drawer and handed each of them a black Domino mask with ribbon ties.  “Wear these at all times,” he instructed.  “What are the names you have chosen?”

    John breathed deeply.  “You can call him Endymion.  And I’ll be Pygmalion.  If those aren’t already taken.”

    The man pursed his lips and squinted at them as he considered John’s choices.  “Surprisingly, you will be the first.  Yes, it shall be as you wish.  For my part you may call me Daedalus.”  He opened the door that led to a new world as he added, with a wolfish grin, “Welcome to my maze.”


	14. The Wine, The Women, The Bedroom Hymns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock delve further into The Palace of Eros.

    The second door in Daedalus’ office led to a smaller room, clear of all furniture and decorations.  John and Sherlock both slipped on their masks, tying them tightly.  John thought that Sherlock looked the villain, while he himself felt ridiculously like a prince in disguise.  

    Daedalus cleared his throat and said, “Now, you shall not use your real names inside The Palace.  No exceptions.  Do not ask anyone anything personal, even if you happen to know them outside of these walls, as many of them are here to get away, same as you.  The safeword across the board is ‘Pan’.  If you hear that, stop immediately.”

    John nodded and Sherlock looked intent.

    “We insist on safe sex.  Lube and condoms are readily available.  See that you use them.  Have fun, and don’t feel pressured.  It’s your first time.”  He chuckled a little and winked at them.  “And yes, voyeurism counts as participation.”

    John’s head spun.

_This is actually happening_ , he repeated over and over in his head. _I feel like I’m trapped in a strange dream I can’t wake from._

    “Are you two ready?”

    John looked at Sherlock.  Sherlock looked at John.  John trembled a little.  Sherlock crossed the small space between them and wrapped his arms around John tightly.  He pressed his mouth to the smaller man’s ear and whispered, “Last chance, John.   Just say the word.”

    John pulled away and met Sherlock’s gaze.  Sherlock’s eyes seemed doubtful and full of questions.  John reassured him with a smile, “We can do this.  It’ll be okay.”  Then he pulled Sherlock close and kissed him sweetly.  

    “All right,” said Daedalus, claiming their attention.  John had almost forgotten he was there.  With one last flourish, their host opened the last door and John gasped.  

    Cautiously, they entered a large room.  It was more crowded than John had thought it would be.  There were a few dozen people, all in various stages of undress, some wearing only their masks.  John saw flashes of white teeth and red lips.  His nightmare from the early morning seized at his heart and he reached for Sherlock protectively.  

    Daedalus nudged them gently further into the room before retreating back towards the office.  “This is your stop.  The exit’s that way,” he said, pointing to a red door on the side wall.  “I do hope to see you two again.  Very soon.”  With a large grin he shut the door and John heard the metallic click of a deadbolt.  

    John eyed the exit again nervously.  Then Sherlock’s arm was around his shoulder and he breathed.  Sherlock was scanning the room.  John looked up at him and was surprised to see hints of distress on Sherlock’s face.  His eyes were wide behind his mask and his jaw was clenched.  John’s own fear was forgotten with the knowledge that he needed to calm Sherlock, so the brilliant mind could work at full capacity.

    “Shh, it’s okay.  Don’t try to take it all in at once or your system will crash.  Just tell me what you see.”  John’s tone was warm and soothing but neutral.

    Sherlock’s eyes continued to dart wildly about the room, soaking in data.  “It’s hard,” he said, his quiet voice strained.   Several people had begun to notice them.  “It’s hard to read a lot of these people.  The less clothing makes it more difficult.”

    “Okay, well let’s narrow down the field.  We’re looking for a woman, right?”

    Sherlock took a shaky breath and closed his eyes, focusing.  

    “Yes,” he said, opening his eyes again.

    “Okay, so that’s a start.”  John smiled at him with encouragement, moving closer.  “Let’s go talk to people, see if you hear anything, or get any strange vibes or whatever.  Just stay close to me.”

    Sherlock nodded and they moved farther towards the group.  Beneath the tinkling laughter, murmurs of conversation, and erotic moaning, John could hear music.  It was low, quiet enough not to distract.

    From their left appeared a petite blonde with a bob cut.  Her lips shimmered pink as she offered them a friendly and flirty smile.  She was completely naked except for a leather studded belt that hung around her waist.  “Hi,” she said, her voice sparkling like a wind chime.  She looked to be, at most, in her late twenties.  “I’m called Ariadne.  Or Ari, if you like.  You’re new, right?”

    John realised his jaw was open and quickly shut it.  “Hello, Ariadne,” he said, reaching out a hand to shake instinctively.  After an awkward delay she saved him further embarrassment by taking it.  “Yes, we’re new,” John explained.  Trying for humour, he said, “God, is it really that obvious?  I’m Pygmalion, I suppose, and he’s Endymion.”

    “Pleasure to meet you,” she winked, flashing a grin at Sherlock.

    Sherlock only gave her a stare that was so unamused it would have put Queen Victoria to shame.  Giving up on him, she turned her attention back to John.  She ran her fingers lightly over John’s bicep and said, “I was new once.  It was very overwhelming.  If you’d like, I could show you around some, yeah?”

    “Cheers,” John said, smiling broadly to overcompensate for Sherlock’s rudeness.  They needed all the help they could get.  

    “Great!” she grinned.  Then she spun lightly and gestured around them.  “This is the main floor.  This is where you start, say hello, grab a drink.  Speaking of which…”

    They followed her to the drinks bar, where a plump and jolly-looking man was wiping the counter.  With a wave of her arm, Ari made the introductions.  “Di, these are some new friends.  Endymion and Pygmalion.”  She rested her chin on her fist, her eyes narrowing in concentration.  “I think I’ll call them Endy and Pyg.”

    “Di?” John asked, “As in Dionysus?  Clever.”

    The man shrugged.  “Not really.  I have the wine so it just seemed to make sense.  What’ll it be, gents?”

    John asked for a whiskey because he desperately needed it, and Sherlock quietly asked for a vodka tonic while he continued his inspection of the other patrons.  The drinks were set on the bar and Di topped off Ari’s rum and coke.  

    Drinks in hand, they followed Ari into a side room.  The walls were a dark blue and there were statues all around.  The area was rather large, with flat rows of cinema-style seating in the back.  

    “This is the amphitheatre,” Ari explained.  On the wall opposite the flat rows was a screen, which was lit by a projector.   Several people were quietly watching a silent pornographic film, some of them casually stroking each other.

    Sherlock looked around quickly, pronounced the scene ‘dull’ and left, leaving Ari and John to catch each other’s gaze before following him out.  

    Ari shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly.  “Okay, maybe something in this room will strike your fancy,” she said, moving down the wall to open the next door.  The next chamber she took them in had blood-red walls.  The floor was nothing more than a writhing mass of variably-toned flesh.  The moans alone were enough to make John’s cock twitch a little in anticipation. It was impossible to count exactly how many bodies inhabited the space, as they mingled and pulsed together like one large creature.  

    Ari leaned in close to John, her warm breath tickling his ear.  “Like anything you see, big boy?"  John's pants grew tighter and he couldn't look at Sherlock.

_Focus, soldier.  You’re on a mission._

    Sherlock spoke up dispassionately, “Why don’t you keep her occupied for awhile and I’ll poke around.”

    “Yeah, that sounds nice,” John said, though his voice suggested he thought the idea was anything but.  Sherlock smiled at him strangely.  His voice distant, John explained to Ari, “He loves to explore.”  John pursed his lips in a question and Sherlock’s eyes pointed at Ari in a way that suggested to John that Sherlock had to get away to work.  Turning his attention back to their unshakable guide, John asked, “Can we go somewhere a little more private?”

    “Of course.  One moment,” she said, lowering her tone.  Then she slipped into the whirlwind of limbs.  John saw her whisper excitedly to a woman with a dark brown complexion.  Ari pointed back at John and the other woman gave him a little wave.   John felt unreal, waving back at a strange woman whilst she was clearing getting fingered by another stranger.  

_Never in all my life…_

    Sherlock leaned in, surprising John as he whispered in his ear, “I trust you’ll find a way to keep her distracted while I sneak around.”

    John watched Ari kiss the other woman deeply before making her way back to John with light, graceful steps.

    “That’s my girlfriend,” she explained.

    “Oh, right,” John nodded, as if they were merely at a fancy dinner party, enjoying polite conversation.  “Come on,” Ari, said, pulling him by the hand.  John looked back to find that Sherlock had already disappeared somewhere.  Rather than draw attention to the fact that Sherlock was gone, John allowed Ari to lead him away.  

    Not ready to take the night further quite yet, John suggested they stop by the bar for another drink first.  Ari agreed with the idea, and they sat at the bar making small talk until John could find no other plausible reason to delay any longer.  Ari smiled as she led him to a group of sofas, most of which were already occupied.  She sat him down and climbed on top of his lap.

    “My girlfriend agreed with me that you are very handsome,” she purred.

    “Thank you,” John said awkwardly as she loosened his tie.  “And you’re both quite lovely yourselves.”

    Then she kissed John roughly, biting his lower lip.  He jumped in surprise and she eased up a bit.  John hooked his fingers into her belt at her waist.  Before, he would have considered himself extremely lucky to be in the position he found himself in.   Instead he felt guilty.  He wanted to be with Sherlock, but Ari felt so good on top of him.  So...interested.  It had been a long while since he had been with anyone before he got involved with the case.

    Ariadne kissed him slowly, learning his mouth, as her hands snaked up and down his chest.  “I want to feel you in my mouth,” she groaned, and John gave in to the sensations and felt himself grow hard at the notion.  

    Ari climbed off of him, shouting “Atlas!” to a passing man who carried a silver globe.  When he got nearer, he removed the top half of the hollow sphere and Ariadne plucked something off the top of the bowl and hurried back to John.  It was a condom.  She set the small plastic packet down while she attended to undoing John’s trousers.  John could see the small wet patch of pre-cum darkening his pants.  Ariadne stroked him through the material with a heavy hand, and John scooted forward into the sensation,  With agonising slowness she released his penis, which was now standing proudly.  She ripped open the condom wrapper and placed the rubber in her mouth.  With proficient skill, she took John fully into her mouth, sheathing him as she went.  

    John groaned and cursed under his breath.  She seemed to be a girl of many hidden talents.  Through the holes of her mask she glanced up at him mischieviously.  All the blood in John’s head relocated to his other head and he leaned back dizzily.  

    Teasingly, a tongue licked up the length of him.  John no longer cared that there were probably people watching.  He felt her begin to suck and he closed his eyes and imagined it was Sherlock.  Loudly he moaned in ecstasy.  John bit his hand to stifle his voice before he loudly cried Sherlock’s name.  

    Soft hands ran along the inside of John’s thighs.  They were much too small to be Sherlock’s and the knowledge of that pulled him back a little.  John hissed as he was taken in fully again.

    Suddenly, a large hand gripped his shoulder and he jumped, eyes opening wide.  Ariadne choked a little at the unexpected movement and John apologised profusely.  She assured him that all was well and continued, smiling up at him.

    John turned his attention to the intruder who had startled him.  

    “Hello, sweet,” came a dulcet rumble in his ear.   _Sherlock_ , he thought, and felt himself twitch.  

    “I heard you from the next room,” Sherlock said, his voice husky.  “Do you mind if I watch?”

    “God, no.  Please stay,” John huffed.  Sherlock slid both arms over John’s shoulders from his place behind the seat and John leaned his head back again.

    Ariadne used one hand to slowly pump at John’s base while she mouthed his testicles, alternating between kisses and light suckles.  Through John’s fluttering eyes he could see Sherlock’s face inches above his own, the detective’s keen eyes trained on what Ariadne was doing.  John licked his lips and reached both arms back to grab Sherlock’s shoulders.  John squeezed tightly as he tried to steady himself, his chest heaving.  

    Ari licked the tip of John’s tumescence before swallowing him again, her hand and mouth working together.  She began to pick up speed.  

    John stared up at Sherlock, his clever Sherlock: so near but too far.  He began to pant quietly, “Sh-, Sh-, Sh-,” and Sherlock smashed his mouth against John’s.  John kissed him hungrily.  Sherlock’s hands clenched roughly in John’s shirt and the soldier felt himself nearing the precipice.  Gentleman that he was, John at least had the decency to alert Ariadne of this fact by releasing Sherlock and pressing on her shoulders.  With one last long draw, John came.  

    Ariadne released him as John slumped back.  Sherlock had been watching again, he knew, and the thought excited him.  The petite woman stood and wiped her mouth.  “Welcome to The Palace,” she said.  She leaned over and kissed John’s cheek.  For a moment she paused before leaning in to kiss Sherlock’s cheek as well.

    “If you ever need me, I’ll be around.  It was nice to meet you.  Both of you.”

    Then she was gone.  Sherlock stood and walked around to sit next to John.  With a sure hand, John pulled off the condom carefully and deposited it in the nearest bin.  He grabbed a tissue from the side table and cleaned himself off.  When he had finished he pulled his pants up and fastened his trousers.  

     Sherlock had looked away politely during all this, which really confused John.  He no longer saw the point of privacy between them, but he still appreciated the gesture.  He cleared his throat when he was ready and Sherlock looked at him.  

    “We need to go,” he said quickly.

    “Are you okay?” John asked.  He was scared by Sherlock’s dark tone and cupped his face to better examine it for signs of worry or distress.

    “I’m fine,” Sherlock assured, pushing John’s hands away gently.  “I just need to think.  Unless, of course, you’d rather stay.”   Sherlock made it clear by his voice that he very much did not want John to want to stay.

    “No, let’s go,” John replied without hesitation.

    They slowly but purposefully made their way to the exit.  Sherlock wrapped an arm possessively around John’s waist as they made their way through the crowd.  John wanted to feel grateful for the contact, but his mind began to replay what had just happened and John felt guilt rise like bile in his throat.  The laughs around them echoed sickly and John wanted to get away as fast as possible.  

    Worse than the guilt of his actions, John dwelt on the fact that Sherlock had done nothing to stop it.  He had even gone so far as to encourage John to seek outside attentions.  John knew that in reality, they were nothing more than friends and flatmates.  He realised that he had wanted Sherlock to get jealous.  He had wanted Sherlock to pull Ariadne off of him and demand that no one touch him.  Instead, Sherlock had just watched, and that cut John deeply.  Rather than voice his torments, he followed Sherlock out to the drive, where their black car was waiting for them.  They rode in silence all the way to their hotel.

 


	15. Although I Was Burning, You're the Only Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John arrive at their hotel.

    Their hotel was far from standard; In fact, it was probably the best one John would ever stay in in his entire life.  As they pulled up to the entrance, John moved the get out of the car, making a mental note to check the sure-to-be insanely high thread count.  Too late, John realised he had nothing but the clothes on his body.  He stepped out of the car to say something to Sherlock, who was pointedly avoiding his attention, when the driver pulled two large trunks from the boot.  John, wanting to feel useful, grabbed one while Sherlock strutted inside.  John felt his eyebrows crease and his face tensed.  

_I know he’s mad about something.  Is it because of what happened?  But he..._

    When John made it to the desk, Sherlock was putting away a card he had been showing the now flustered woman, who reminded John of Molly Hooper whenever Sherlock was around her.  She was blushing a little and seemed to find it difficult to look at Sherlock directly.

    “Yes, sir.  Here is your room key.  Someone will bring your bags up right away.  Please enjoy your stay.”  She glanced at John with only slight difficulty.  “Let us know if there is anything, anything at all, that we can do for you.”

    “Thank you,” said Sherlock sharply.  He accepted the key cards and left John.

    John’s jaw dropped a little, but he quickly righted it.  He smiled without teeth and looked at the woman, his eyes apologising to _her_  for some reason.

    “Just leave the bag there, sir.  We’ll have it up straight away.”  The woman smiled kindly at John.  He looked behind him, but the driver had also already left him.  John slowly set down the case he had carried in.  Embarrassed, he leaned in to ask the woman what room they were in.  She told him and directed him kindly towards the lift.  

_What the fuck is wrong with Sherlock?  Usually he’s rude, but that was just bloody appalling.  What now?  Are we just going to go home, and avoid the issue until one of us finally dies, or what?_

    John took a small detour to splash water on his face.  Sherlock was more than upset with him, he seemed practically livid--not speaking to him and outright ignoring him.  John searched his mind for clues painfully: _Oh my God, I almost said his name. That’s why he kissed me.  To shut me up.  I could have blown the whole thing right then.  I need to go apologise._

    John groaned audibly and splashed more frigid water on his face.  He left the water closet and rode the lift to their floor.  He found the door the woman had specified and hesitated before knocking softly.  The door opened quickly and a long arm thrust into the corridor, grabbing John by the jacket front.  Forcefully he was pulled inside the room and thrown against a wall as the door shut heavily.  Sherlock growled at him, crowding close.  

    For a moment, John was scared.  Sherlock could be unpredictable, though John never thought he would actually hurt him.   John felt smothered with Sherlock’s breath hot on his temple.  Then Sherlock grabbed John by the base of his skull and kissed him.  John’s vision went black and he instinctively kissed back.  Sherlock pulled away, sucking on John’s lower lip.  

    Then John heard someone clear their throat.  A bellhop stood awkwardly a few feet away.  “Will that be all sir?”

    _Goddammit_ , John surrendered to madness as his head hit the wall.   _Of course.  There has to be an audience._

    “That’s all for now.  Thank you,” Sherlock said in a business tone.  The young man snaked past them and out the door, which Sherlock then bolted.  

    Looking back over his shoulder, Sherlock commanded, “Get in the shower.  You smell like sex.”  

    John looked up at Sherlock, trying to read an expression.  He nodded once and slid along the wall weakly.  He looked at the two trunks that had managed to arrive before him like he could curse them.  

    _What excellent service_ , he thought sarcastically.  

    John disrobed completely on his way to the shower, leaving garments scattered like a path of destruction in his wake.  The bathroom was large, with a shower and a separate small jacuzzi.  He hopped in under the shower head, turned on the water, and let the spray wash away his sins.  He scrubbed his body roughly, trying to get at a fresher layer of skin.  He wanted a second chance.  

    Shortly after he had gotten in the shower, Sherlock had walked in and started to fill the massive tub.  He came back several minutes later and shut off the water, stripping down before lowering himself in.  

    John shut off the water and slid the shower door open.  Steam swirled around the room, coating the mirror and making Sherlock into a spectral beauty across the room.  Sherlock’s head was back and he had a wet flannel over his eyes.  John watched Sherlock’s adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.  Sherlock’s arm hung over the side of the tub and John thought he looked like the famous painting of Marat upon his death.  

    “Get in the water, I want to talk,” Sherlock hummed lazily.  

    John made his way across the tile floor, careful not to slip.  Sherlock pulled his knees into his chest and John sank in, laying his head back near the faucet.  When John was more or less seated, Sherlock stretched his legs back out over top of John’s.

    Sherlock’s calm manner, so different from earlier, made John anxious.  “What do you want to talk about?”

    Sherlock’s head snapped up, launching the flannel into the water where it landed with a loud plop.  

    “Tonight, obviously.”

    John watched him, withdrawing into himself like he was a child again and knew he was due for a stern lecture from his father.  Sherlock sighed at John’s uncharacteristic shyness and continued talking.

    “I found a potential source.  There was a woman there called Cassandra.  Complete gossip.  I think she wanted to fuck me but I let her fuck my ears with her insufferable voice instead.”

    “How did you manage that?  Did you get off with anyone?” John asked, inflamed.

    Sherlock scoffed, “Not interested, John.  And neither is ‘Endymion’.  I just told them that I really preferred to watch.  That was more than acceptable.”

    “Smart thinking,” John said, his heart rate returning to normal.  

    Sherlock adjusted himself so he was sitting up, pulling his legs away from John.  He wrapped his arms around his shins and tucked his chin behind his knees.  “You certainly jumped right in,” he commented, as if in passing.  John suspected that Sherlock cared much more than he was letting on, just from personal experience with the man.

    A shiver passed through John and he pretended to be incredibly interested in one of the tiles, running a finger along the edges of it.  Remembering he had taken Ariadne aside at Sherlock’s suggestion he grew defensive.  “Wait a minute,” he barked, removing his finger from the tile and stabbing it in Sherlock’s direction.  “No.  You told me to distract her so you could sneak off.”

    “I didn’t tell you to ask her to fellate you!” Sherlock shouted back.

    John pursed his lips, realising that the walls were probably very thin.  The entire hotel didn’t have to hear the rest of their conversation.  

    Much calmer than he felt, John ventured forth a question he almost didn’t want answered.  “Were you jealous?”

    It was Sherlock’s turn to purse his lips.  Staring up through his lashes he venomously spat, “Have I ever tried to interfere in your love life before, John Watson?”

    “Yes!”  John was incredulous.  He couldn’t believe the audacity of the man.  “Almost every time!  Hold on, I take that back.”

    Sherlock squinted curiously.

    “It was every time, Sherlock.”

    Sherlock exhaled through his nose quickly and rolled his eyes.  

    “I only interfered when it was clear you were desperate for help.”

    John’s mouth fell open and he was unable to speak for a moment.  “That is unbelievable.  Typical you- thinking you know best for me.”

    Sherlock’s eyes boldened.  “That’s because I do!”

    John was bewildered at Sherlock’s ardour.  John felt confused again.   _Is Sherlock trying to tell me something?_  John thought for a moment before deciding, _No, he’s probably just being his usual arrogant self._

    Lowering his voice, Sherlock said, “You can be so impossibly stubborn sometimes.”

    “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”  John moved to climb out of the tub, but when he gripped the edges Sherlock threw his full weight onto John’s chest.  John was pushed back, his head smacking tile, causing him to wince loudly in pain and grit his teeth.

    Sherlock’s face was inches from John’s.  “Don’t go,” he whispered.  “I’m sorry.”

    “Do you mean that?” John asked distractedly, gingerly touching the back of his head.

    “John I would never lie to you.”

    John rolled his eyes, which made his head hurt worse.  “Sherlock you lie to me _all the time_.  Case in point- what you just said to me was, in fact, a lie.”

    “Fine,” Sherlock growled.  “If that’s how you’re going to be.  Here, let me give you more examples to draw from.”

    Then Sherlock crushed his mouth to John’s.  John wondered if Sherlock had given him a concussion.  He thrust his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and met Sherlock’s tongue with parries and thrusts.  They moved around each other and the water churned: A perfect storm.

    When they paused for air, Sherlock gasped, “Let me try, John.  I want to do what she did.”

    With a clumsy hand, Sherlock reached between them to stroke John.  John responded immediately.  

    “Not here,” John breathed.  “The bed is more comfortable.”

    Quickly, they both climbed out and grabbed towels, not pausing to dry themselves fully.  John laid a towel down and climbed on top of it, propping himself up on his elbows.  Sherlock climbed on top of him and kissed hungrily.  

_Yes, definitely a concussion._

    Sherlock moved from his mouth to his jaw, biting, then pressing kisses gently down John’s neck.  He kissed over John’s pounding heart.  With one hand he thumbed over John’s nipple before ghosting over the skin covering his ribcage.  He began moving towards John’s lower abdomen.  “Like this?” Sherlock asked between kisses.

    “Yes, this is definitely a nice start.”  John was already almost completely hard.

    Sherlock licked moisture from John’s abdomen and blew on his skin, making him shiver with anticipation.  

    _No, not just a concussion.  I blacked out and drowned.  I must be in Heaven.  Or Hell, I’m still not really sure._

    Sherlock moved away, pulling John’s legs apart.  John shifted as Sherlock hooked John’s legs over his thin but broad shoulders.  Sherlock hesitated then, looking back up at John for guidance.  John licked his lips, thinking about Sherlock’s lips around him.  

    “Do you want me to talk you through it?” he asked, puzzled but trying to move things along quite quickly.  

    “Well, it is just another lesson, right?”

    _Right.  I’m in Hell._

    “Yeah, of course,” he lied easily.

“Then I shall await for informative commands, Captain Watson.”

    At the title, John went weak.  Sherlock never could play fair.

    “Use your tongue,” he said, his voice lower than usual.

    Sherlock smiled and did as he was told, licking up John’s full length.  John hissed, his abdomen flexing.  “Good,” he said, lowering himself so that he was flat on his back, freeing his hands to smooth through Sherlock’s wet hair.  Sherlock licked him again and he winced.  “More,” John demanded huskily.  Sherlock pressed his tongue warmly to John’s skin and licked more roughly.  John signaled his approval by bucking into him slightly.  

    Not wanting it to be over so soon, John told him to slow down.  “Now your lips.  Kiss me.”

    Sherlock moved to press his mouth against John’s hip lightly before returning to John’s erection.  He began at the base, pressing kisses that were now much too gentle all the way to the tip.  His mouth was slightly open and John could feel little teases of Sherlock’s tongue with each touch.  John pulled Sherlock’s hair, his body crying out for him to apply more pressure.  

    _Too much.  This is too much.  I can’t wait anymore.  I need him now._

    “Wait,” John breathed and Sherlock released him immediately.

    “What is it?  Are you alright?”

    “Yeah, I just wish we had some lubricant.”

    Sherlock leapt off of the bed and flung open one of their luggage cases.  Recklessly, he tossed item after item aside.  He had made a huge mess of their clothes by the time he found what he had been searching for.  Returning to the bed, he waggled the very small, clear container at John.

    He flicked the top open with a snap and poured the gel onto his fingers.  Seeing that he was going to just leave it at that, John said, “ A little bit more.”

    Sherlock looked at him but coated his fingers ridiculously with almost the entire bottle.  He tossed the container aside and repositioned himself, careful not to lose any precious liquid.  

    “Okay,” John began again.  “Coat my base and wrap your hand around me there.  Use your mouth at the top.”

    Warmth soothed over John, and the friction became more pleasurable.  Then Sherlock took him in his mouth and John forgot his own name.  Sherlock was a fast learner.  He was not as skilled as Ariadne, but his lack of proficiency was much more endearing to John.

_Wrong again.  I’m in Heaven._

    John’s lashes fluttered and his mouth opened in a silent moan.  He could feel the pressure building already.  His back arched and his muscles tensed.  He began to pant louder and louder.

    Sherlock switched hands and picked up the pace.  Then, without warning, John felt the slick pressure of Sherlock’s fingers against his perineum.  John had to stop himself from jumping, but he found that he had no objections so he left Sherlock to his explorations.  John felt curious at the new sensation, and was as yet unable to tell whether it was pleasurable or not.

    Sherlock’s cheeks hollowed as he sucked, exaggerating the sharpness of his cheekbones wildly.  John had neurons firing savagely; Pleasure responses were being torpedoed to his brain from all directions.  Sherlock’s slick finger circled John then entered him carefully, gently penetrating.  John gasped aloud, physically uncomfortable, but when the finger retreated he wanted the pressure back.  Without waiting to be told, Sherlock pressed in again, never losing the pace he set with his mouth and other hand, and John moaned.  He felt like he was being twisted in two directions by Sherlock’s combined motions.

    Sherlock hummed around John’s flesh and he couldn’t hold off any longer.  He clenched his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, trying to pull him away in time, but Sherlock was intransigent.  

    John came with a quiet cry, thrusting as little as he could.  Sherlock sputtered a little, but swallowed him down.  Sherlock leaned back as John melted.  Sherlock grabbed his towel and wiped John and his hands off.  John could hear static.  There was nothing in his mind but Sherlock.  Everything else was white noise.  

    “You know,” Sherlock announced seriously, “You should add more fruit to your diet.  I read that it makes semen taste sweeter.”

    John wheezed a laugh.  “Is that so?  You really need to stop reading all those crap women’s magazines.”

    Sherlock grinned playfully and John couldn’t stop himself from rolling up to a sitting position and kissing that mouth.  The taste of himself on Sherlock’s lips confirmed to John that he was alive and that Sherlock was with him, at least physically.  Even if just for the time being.

    Sherlock shivered and John felt the chill in the air as the heat from the excitement left his body.  He got off the bed to retrieve a clean, dry towel from the bathroom.  When he got back, Sherlock was sitting at the foot of the bed.  John threw the towel over Sherlock’s head and rubbed the dark hair vigorously.  Sherlock held onto John’s waist to steady himself.

    “Careful!” he griped, the word muffled by the heavy towel.  John smiled and eased up a little.  When he finished he threw the towel aside and laughed at Sherlock’s mound of fluffy tresses.  

    Sherlock frowned at the good-natured mockery and began running his fingers through his hair, preening himself towards order.

    “No, leave it alone,” John protested.  “It’s cute.”

    “John, I am a grown man, not a toy or a pet.”

    John carded through Sherlock’s fringe, marveling at how fast it coiled.  

    “We should get under the covers before we catch our deaths.”

    Not bothering to dress, they cleared off the bed and climbed in, both resting on their backs.

    Silence stretched uncomfortably.  

    “So…” John murmured, unsure of the proper protocol.  He wanted to cling to Sherlock and share body heat, but he was sure Sherlock wouldn’t see the need to cuddle.

    “So,” Sherlock repeated.

    “What about tomorrow night?” John blurted, grateful to have found a topic other than ‘When can we do that again?’

    “Yes, yes.  We need to go back.  None of the women really stuck out there to me as murderous.  However,” Sherlock said, delight brightening his face as he rolled on his side to face John, “There was another woman.  Cassandra told me she’s a dominatrix called Circe.  She’s on the upper floor and apparently was the favourite attraction of our dead Mr. Gibson.  Not only that, but Circe was rumoured to have gone to the Gibson’s country house here on several occasions.  Cassandra said she saw her once and she looked ‘shifty’, whatever that means.”  Sherlock’s excitement was palpable.  He grinned broadly as he put the cherry on the cake.  “Also, Noel Gibson was with Circe when he died.  They were alone in her private chambers, a fact that was hushed up pretty quickly.”  

    John rolled over to face Sherlock, his cheek resting on his open palm.  “So do you think Circe was the one having the affair with Noel?  That’s what it sounds like, if that Cassandra is a decent source.  It would have been easy for Circe to kill Noel during one of their private meetings.”

    “I need more information to form a proper hypothesis.”  Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he whispered conspiratorially, “Which is why I’m going to see Circe tomorrow night.”

    “Absolutely not.  Not without me.”

    “John, don’t be ridiculous.”

    John puffed out his chest and said forcefully, “No, it’s too dangerous.”

    Sherlock sighed and said, “John, it’s fine.  I’ll be careful.  It’ll be more difficult for me if I have to worry about you being there.”

    John rolled back over and stared at the ceiling.  “If you’re not going to listen to me, I guess there’s nothing I can do to convince you.  Just know that I don’t like it.”

    Instead of replying, Sherlock slid closer.  He splayed a hand across John’s bare chest, stopping when his fingers found John’s scar.  He traced over the rough skin absently.  John knew that he was lost in thought, so he whispered, “Good night,” to himself and closed his eyes.

 


	16. Falling Together But Failing to Realise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock take a much-needed, though not long-lived, break from the case.

    John stood near the bed of his and Sherlock’s hotel suite.  He had awoken hours before he intended to, and had been too restless to sleep again.  Getting out of the bed, John had untangled himself regretfully from Sherlock’s long limbs before putting on a clean pair of pants and getting to work organising their things.  Sherlock had made a mess of everything the night before, but John had it sorted in no time.  John recognized almost all of the items, which meant Mycroft’s minions had raided 221B.  They had packed enough for at least a week’s sojourn.

    After he finished, John putted about the room, piling used towels for the cleaners.  He glanced behind the window curtain and watched fresh snow cover the surfaces below.  The cold came through the glass as if John stood at an open freezer box so he didn’t stay there long.  He moved back to the edge of the bed, where he stood with his hands on his hips.  

   With nothing more to distract him, his attention was allowed to return to the sleeping Sherlock, whose face was sweetly relaxed.  John watched the rise and fall of his chest contentedly.  In those moments, Sherlock was his alone.  Rolling onto his back, Sherlock mumbled incoherently and his fingers twitched.  John shivered and he longingly wanted to rejoin Sherlock’s warmth.  

    Carefully, so as not to disturb his sleeping love, he climbed back under the covers.  John propped his head up with a hand on his cheek.  With his other hand he reached over and delicately traced Sherlock’s bow lips.

_When we go back to London, I will have to sneak into his room and watch him sleep when I can._

    John pulled his hand away and shook his head.   _No, wait.  That’s a little creepy._

    Sherlock’s face flinched, as if he could read John’s mind.  Then Sherlock curled over into the concave space John’s body had left open.  John scooted in closer, wrapping his arm around Sherlock and pressing his face into Sherlock’s hair.  Sherlock’s warm breath swirled on his chest, ticking.  John breathed him in.

_Sherlock smells like home._

    Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose as he stirred.  

    “John?” came a muffled rumble.

    “Mmhmm?” John replied as he stroked along Sherlock’s spine.

    “What time is it?”

    “Still early.”  John knew this without having to glance at a clock.  “We have plenty of time to rest.”  
Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s waist and pulled himself closer, pressing his face into John in a way that had to be uncomfortable for him.

    In a light tone, John said, “Sherlock?”

    “Mmm?”

    “Can I...”  John wavered, unsure if he should continue.  He decided to try again.  “Can I...conduct an experiment of my own?”

    Sherlock stilled.

    “I mean, it would be to help your cataloguing.  And you know…”  John wanted to shove his fist down his throat to shut himself up.  He sounded like an awkward teenager.  

    Sherlock rolled away.  Cautiously, he said, “What did you have in mind?”

    Emboldened, John climbed on top of Sherlock.  “Just a little tit for tat.”  He kissed Sherlock’s confused lips, then nervously slid down Sherlock’s lean body.  John had never given another man oral sex before, but he knew what felt good, and he wanted to taste Sherlock.  John had made little distance when Sherlock grabbed him tightly by the shoulders.  

    John froze and looked at Sherlock’s shocked face.

    “Problem?” John inquired, hoping there wasn’t one.

    Sherlock spoke quickly in a determined voice.  “I appreciate the generous offer, but really, it’s not necessary.”

    “I’m not handing you five quid, mate.”

    “I know that.”

    Desperate, John said, “Look, I only thought maybe you would be curious.  I was going to return the favour and get you off.”

    “John,” Sherlock reprimanded.  “No.  I don’t want this.”

    “Okay,” John complied, climbing off of Sherlock.  “Forget I said anything.”  John was embarrassed and wounded at the rejection, his eyes downcast as he forced a stiff and tight smile.

    Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and said his name like an apology.

    John felt horrible.  He had thought that, after the night before, Sherlock might want special attention from him, and part of him was still trying to apologise for Ariadne.  But he felt like Sherlock didn't want him, and he wasn't going to force the issue.   Instead, he sat up and put his head in his hands.  After a few deep breaths, he tried to assure them both: “Sherlock, it’s fine.  If you don’t want it, then that’s the end of it.  No pressure, remember?  I respect you too much for that.”

    Sherlock scooted closer and put his arm around John’s shoulders.  John leaned into the support.  After several minutes during which John felt like he was floating, cast adrift, he sat up and started to pull himself away.

    “God, we should get breakfast.  I’m starving,” John said with stressed cheeriness, shrugging off Sherlock’s arm.

    “John?” Sherlock repeated, looking concerned.

    Ignoring him, John continued, “I’m going to have a full English breakfast and tea.  What about you?”

    “I’m not hungry,” Sherlock said quietly.

    John stared at him a moment, unsettled because Sherlock still seemed upset with him, even though he had backed down when Sherlock told him to.  John was desperate to think about anything else so he slipped back into the role he commonly played at home.

    “I don’t care.  You’re going to eat.”

    “I don’t need to eat,” Sherlock said, recalcitrant.  He moved away and plopped down, pulling the sheet over his head.

    “Yes.  You do,” John insisted, ringing the main desk as he muttered, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear, “I’ve had enough of your faffing about when it comes to eating.”

    John ordered them both breakfast and tea.  Several minutes later it arrived and John put on a robe to receive it.  He sat down at the small table in the room and ate with gusto.  Sherlock ignored his doctor until the smell of tea made him get up and join John, wrapping a sheet around himself.

    He picked at his food and John tried not to watch him.  When John finished his plate (and a portion of Sherlock’s), he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his expanded stomach with a sigh.

    Sherlock set down his cuppa and said, “Let’s go out.”

    “In this?” John asked, motioning to the window.  

    “Yes.  I could use some fresh air.”  Sherlock raised his eyebrows as if that information should have been clearly evident to even a monkey.

    John bit his lip to stop himself from starting a row, then smiled a little at the prospect of a day out with Sherlock.  “What did you have in mind?”

    Sherlock looked at his plate in concentration.  “There’s a park not far away.”

    “Okay,” John said, needing little to no coercion.  He was beginning to think that time where a bed was not in sight was something he desperately needed to try and get his head straight.

    They each went through morning routines and bundled up warmly.  Sherlock fired a text off to their driver and they slowly made their way to the hotel lobby.  As soon as the car pulled up, they got in and rode the short distance.  They exited the car at the park entrance and walked in silence, their breaths forming bright puffs around them.  

    John shuffled through the snow, watching his feet like he did when he was young.  Sherlock stared ahead, his eyes the intense clear grey of the winter sky.  John stopped and Sherlock kept walking, oblivious.  Quickly, John removed his gloves and slipped them into the pockets of his anorak.  Reaching down, he gathered fresh snow into a small pile before compacting it into a firm ball.  Sherlock was several meters ahead of him and moving farther.  Taking quick aim at the back of Sherlock’s head, John threw, reveling in the innocence and the way all thoughts cleared his mind at the action.

    The projectile sailed cleanly through the air, passing Sherlock’s ear by mere centimeters.  John’s jaw dropped when he saw that he had missed.  The cold had made his shoulder stiff.  Sherlock had stopped when the ball passed him then slowly turned around, glaring.

    “Did you just try to hit me with a snowball?” Sherlock said sardonically.  "No one has ever done that to me in all my life."

    Snow melted on John’s fingers, dripping slowly to the ground, betraying him.  His chest heaved as he breathed a giggle.  In an instant, Sherlock was flat-out running towards him.  “Shit!” he laughed before turning on his heel and running.

    “You get back here you bloody child!” Sherlock shouted.

    John giggled again and picked up his pace, slipping a little.  His laughter turned into an “Oomph!” as Sherlock tackled him from behind, knocking the wind out of him as he toppled him to the ground.  

    John rolled instinctively beneath Sherlock, who jumped up to straddle John, pinning his wrist down.  John wriggled, trying to break free to gain the higher ground, but Sherlock managed to hold him down with his full body weight.  Sherlock was smiling, savouring the taste of victory.

    “Get off of me, you bastard,” John laughed, kicking aimlessly.

    Sherlock released John’s wrists to grab handfuls of snow and smother them into John’s hair.  John gave a short, high scream at the assault.  

    “Alright!  Alright!  Mercy!” he yelled, and Sherlock stopped.  

    “Do you submit?”  Sherlock seemed skeptical.

    John seized the moment and flipped them.  He leaned over Sherlock’s chest and taunted, “Never.”

    “We’ll see about that!”  Sherlock flipped them again.  Then they were wrestling in the park, both of them shoving snow at each other blindly.  John tried to get some down Sherlock’s trousers but his belt got in the way.  They both began to tire and their forceful tackles turned into falls.

    Eventually, Sherlock ended up on top and John wearily stopped fighting.  

    Sherlock gasped, “Now...do you...submit?” 

    With the last of his energy, John said, “Make me.”

    Sherlock’s eyes flashed at the challenge and John smiled.  Sherlock’s mouth curled up in response and slowly he leaned forward.  John’s breath caught and his head moved up to meet Sherlock’s lips with his own. 

_I love him so much._

    “Sherlock?  John?” came a female voice from above.  Time froze as their eyes met, wild.  Then Sherlock jumped off of John.

    John recognised the blonde woman instantaneously.  “Grace?”

    Sherlock reached out a hand and helped John to his feet.  

    Grace looked at them both and offered, “Sherlock texted me wanting to meet here.  I came up here from London to the cottage I own in case you two needed any help.”

    She looked them both over, grimacing.  “You two must be freezing.  Why don’t you come over and I’ll make tea.  It’s not far.   You can warm yourselves by the fire.”  She nodded at the hill past the park at the small cottage sitting by itself.  

    “Thank you, that would be lovely,” John replied for them both.

    Grace smiled and led the way, Sherlock and John falling in close behind.  John put his gloves back on and slipped his hand into Sherlock’s.  He started and looked at John, but held on when John smiled at him.  

    “Grace, I have questions,” Sherlock announced, all business.

    She looked over her shoulder at him.  “Please, save it for when we’re inside.  It’s too cold to think.”  She laughed and marched briskly.  

    The walk took much longer than John thought it would, and his teeth were chattering  by the time they got inside.  Sherlock was visibly shaking, with either the cold or impatience, or perhaps a combination.  John didn’t know how the man held back for the entire walk.

    As promised, a large fire was burning in the fireplace.  John moaned and ran over to the heat source.  When he could feel his fingers again, he took off his gloves and anorak, setting them out to dry before forcing Sherlock out of his own to do the same with them.  Grace left them alone to make tea, Sherlock’s eyes following her.  John moved to stand in front of Sherlock.   Roughly, he rubbed Sherlock’s upper arms, moving down and taking Sherlock’s hands in his own.  Sherlock ignored him.   Then John cupped his hands around Sherlock’s, bringing them to his mouth and breathing heavily to warm them.  When John looked back up, Sherlock was watching him, his eyes soft and fond.  John grinned, and Sherlock felt it against his hand.   Sherlock cupped John’s face, and the warmth shocked John into noticing how cold his cheeks were.

    “John, you’re freezing,” Sherlock said, worry creasing his brow.

    “I’m okay,” John insisted, holding on to Sherlock’s wrists.

    Grace walked back in with a tray, breaking the moment like the snap of a rubber band.  John moved to help her with the tea. They seated themselves and she doled out cups.

    Sherlock set his aside without a glance.  “Grace, I may have found a suspect.”

    Her eyes widened and she said, “Oh really?  I must say, that was incredibly quick.”

    Sherlock pursed his lips and continued, “That being said, I need evidence still.”

    “Oh,” said Grace, setting down her own cup.  

    “I need more information about The Palace,” Sherlock pressed.  “I spoke to a woman who seemed to know you and your dead husband well.”

    Grace flinched a little at the mention of Noel, and John rebuked Sherlock quickly.  

    “It’s alright,” she said to John, putting up a hand.

    “Where did your husband go at The Palace?  Who did he interact with?  Did he have routines?  Did he ever upset someone there?”

    Grace’s eyes fluttered as she tried to sort the questions in her mind.  “Um.  He didn’t have any enemies if that’s what you’re asking.  Usually, I believe he wandered the main floor for a while.  He always saw… _Madame Circe_ ,” she spat, “at ten o’clock.  He was very prompt about that.”

    “Circe, yes,” Sherlock repeated in a daze.

    “Did you speak to Cassandra?  If so, I trust her.  We became... _close_.  Circe never liked Cassandra.  Always spread rumours that Cass was a liar.  I think she saw her as a bit of a threat, for some reason.”

    Sherlock stood and paced the floor, thinking.

    John leaned forward, setting his emptied cup aside.  “Grace, we’re going back tonight.  Would you come?  We may need your expertise and familiarity.  It was a little… overwhelming.  For me, at least.”

    “Of course.”

    “Is that a greenhouse?” interrupted Sherlock, gazing out of the window at a glass infrastructure.  

    “Yes,” Grace said, smiling wistfully.  “It’s my secret hobby.  Sometimes I think I prefer plants to people.”

    “I’ll be back,” Sherlock said, not listening.  He threw his heavy coat back on and flew out the rear door.

    John shrugged his shoulders and said, “Lately he’s been obsessed with bees or something.  He probably needs to go have a think.  This is all normal behaviour for him.”  John turned his attention back to his tea and Grace watched him avidly.

    “You love him,” she blurted.

    John’s head spun.  “Beg pardon?”

    “Don’t deny it.  He loves you, too.  Very much.  I can tell.”

    “No, no.”  John shook his head dizzily.  “That’s… No.  He doesn’t love me.  We’re friends.  Colleagues.”

    Grace was amicably insistent.  “I know love when I see it.  It’s plain as day just in the way he looks at you.  And you-- You might as well be on a mountaintop shouting with a flashing hundred-meter sign.”

    John was speechless.

    Grace stood with a smile and began clearing up.  She left the room, leaving John to chew through her words.  

_No_ , he thought.   _That’s not possible.  She doesn’t even know him.  I would know.  If Sherlock loved me, I would know._

    Grace came back in, wiping her palms on a cloth.  

    “I’m sorry to tell you, Grace, but you’re wrong about him.  You see, a different life and Sherlock would have ruled the London stage.  He would have had audiences eating out of the palm of his hand.  He’s just that talented at the art of deception.”

    Grace frowned at him.  “If you insist.  You know him best.”

    John moved to the window and watched Sherlock trudge up the path back to the cottage.  He opened the door, letting the chill in as he stomped the snow off of his shoes before entering.  Sherlock’s eyes met John’s and John desperately searched his face for whatever Grace was seeing that he wasn’t.  Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he moved to put on his coat.  Sherlock had kept his on, which told John they would be leaving soon.

    “Thank you for your time.  John and I must be going,” Sherlock confirmed.

    “Any help I can provide, I am most willing,” Grace said, smiling sadly to herself.  Sherlock nodded and looked at John before exiting out the front.  

    “Thanks for the tea,” John said politely.  He reached for the door handle but Grace’s voice stopped him.

    “Enjoy this while you can, John.  Just give in.  After all, the best part is falling.”

    John paused, waiting to see if she would go on.  Seeing that she was finished, he said stiffly, “Good day.  I’ll see you later tonight,” and left.


	17. It Started Out With a Kiss, How Did It End Up Like This?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock return to The Palace. The night takes a turn for the worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to all my readers!  
> I am incredibly thankful for Chucksauce and all of her support and extensive (and often humourous) notes!

   John stood with Sherlock against the wall of the main room of The Palace, drinks in hand, wearing a white suit with a light grey shirt.  His foot tapped nervously as he concentrated on keeping his eyes on his surroundings, and not on Sherlock, who wore a light grey suit with a crisp white shirt and the top buttons undone.  John had found the clothes among their things and Sherlock insisted they wear them: yin and yang.  Sherlock moaned miserably, checking his watch again.  John was quick to berate him, whispering, “Have patience.  She said she’d be here.”

   Ariadne spotted John across the room and smiled, waving her fingers like butterfly wings.  Sherlock scowled.

   “Go on then,” Sherlock said in a rough voice.  “Since we have time to kill.”

   John sipped his drink and spoke into his glass, “I’m fine right where I am.”

   Sherlock reached out, but instead of grabbing John’s hand, he let his fingers slip through John’s, almost as if he had merely brushed against him by accident.

   They had been there for hours, during which time they were approached by several people, all of whom they declined.  John was ready to go back to the hotel, but Sherlock was waiting for his chance to see Circe.  Smiling, John stroked Sherlock’s palm and pulled away.  When Sherlock didn’t move, John reached out again, this time firmly grasping Sherlock’s hand in his.   Sherlock looked at him as their fingers intertwined, and John marveled at how the black mask brought out the turquoise of Sherlock’s eyes.

   A light and familiar voice interrupted John’s reverie.  “It takes three to tango.  Mind if I join you two?”

    _Grace._

   It took John a moment, but he recognised her under the mask.  She had bubblegum pink lipstick on her full mouth and a Japanese-style schoolgirl uniform.  

   Sherlock let go of John’s hand and inclined his head towards her.  “I’m called Endymion, and this is Pygmalion.”

   She smiled, playing along.  “I’m called Clytemnestra.”

   “Pleasure,” John added, winking.

   “Clytemnestra!” came a shrill voice from John’s left and Sherlock winced.  A brunette pranced over to them and kissed Grace full on the mouth.  “Nestra, my pet.  Where have you been?  I’ve just been in the pit, then popped in to see Circe.”

   Grace looked away, embarrassed.  “Sorry, love, it’s just been hard to come back after…”

   Spotting Sherlock, the woman screeched, “Endymion!  You saucy minx!  Is this your beau?”

   Sherlock glued on the largest grin and capriciously said, “Cassandra, darling!”  Then he leaned in and kissed the brunette quickly on both cheeks.

   “Have you two heard that Nestra’s husband died in Circe’s chamber?  Terrible business.  I think he was killed.”

   “Cass!” Grace shushed her admonishingly.  “Must you always bring that up?”

   Apologetically, Cassandra added, “Well, I do, love.  My thoughts are that he was murdered by someone who was terribly jealous.  There can be a lot of issues with that in a place like this.  Maybe--” she leaned in, whispering, “he was poisoned.”  Her eyes widened and her head bobbed like a chicken.

   John remembered that Sherlock had spoken to this woman for several minutes the night before and he sympathised greatly.  The woman was torture.

   “Cass, let me get you a drink.  The usual?” Grace asked politely, fleeing as soon as Cassandra nodded.

   The vile brunette continued to prattle at Sherlock and John did his best to tune her out.  They were saved at the last minute when Daedalus approached.

   “Endymion, I believe you have an appointment.”

   Sherlock’s face went blank.  “Yes,” he said, then moved to follow where Daedalus led.

   Grace returned, watching Cassandra slowly sip her drink.  John set his own drink aside then grabbed Grace by the arm, excusing himself to Cassandra as they walked away.  Grace looked back at the other woman, but went with him.  Finding a relatively quiet corner, John hissed, “Where is he taking him?  Where is Circe’s chamber?”

   Grace looked around nervously and whispered, “There’s a place where we can watch them.  It’s secret.”

   “Okay, yes.  Let’s go,” John said urgently.

   Grace nodded, her blonde hair bouncing.  She grabbed John’s hand and pulled him after her.  They snaked through the room and to a dark wooden staircase.  No one was around so they tiptoed up the steps quickly.  Grace led him surely, like she had made the journey again and again, only pausing to peer carefully around corners.  She reached a door that looked just like the rest and stopped, looking John in the eyes.  She pressed a finger to her lips, indicating that he remain silent, then slowly turned the knob.  They entered the dark room, which was the size of a small closet.  Through a heavy black curtain on the other side, John could hear indistinguishable noises.  He stepped to move the curtain but Grace grabbed his arm, stopping him.  Her eyes shifted towards the curtain with a warning.  Gently, he used one finger to move the curtain just enough to see out with one eye when he moved in close.  

   He could see a man in a chair several feet in front of him, facing the opposite direction.  The mop of dark curls and the suit told him blatantly it was Sherlock.  He was still and his wrists were bound behind him.

   From the side of the room, John heard a door open.  Sherlock turned toward the noise and John saw that he was blindfolded. Nervously, John focused on steadying his breathing.   _Sherlock is okay.  He’s unhurt.  He asked for this._

   He heard the click on her heels before he saw her.  She was his height, with crimson hair and milky skin.  She wore a black velveteen corset with lace across the top.  Black leather hung in strips from her waist like part of a legionnaire’s uniform over high latex shorts.  The only sounds in the room came from heels the same shade as her hair, with ribbons running from them up her calves and tied in bows just below her knees.

   John felt pressure beside him and looked to find Grace peering carefully through the curtain on the other side, lips parted and eyes wide.  John returned his attention to Sherlock, feeling tension build as the woman slowly circled Sherlock, who kept his face forward.

   “Stand up,” Circe commanded.

   Sherlock angled his head towards her and flippantly said, “No.”

   In a flash, she reached out and slapped him across the face.  John flinched but Grace held him back.  Slowly, Sherlock turned to the direction the smack had come from.

   “I said, ‘stand up’, you piece of shit,” she hissed.

   “No,” Sherlock repeated, indifferently.

   Again she slapped him, hard.

   “Stand!” she screamed.

_For fuck’s sake_ , thought John, _Get up!_

   As though he could hear John, Sherlock stood, awkwardly pulling his bound wrists over the back of the chair, which Circe then violently kicked over.

   “On your knees.”

   Sherlock moved immediately and John watched him, every fiber of his being on edge.

   Circe circled Sherlock again.  Contrary to his obedient body, Sherlock’s mouth asked, “Is this what you always do to your clients?”

   “Did I ask you to speak?” she bellowed.

   Contemptuously, Sherlock replied, “Well, you didn’t ask me _not_ to speak.”

   John rolled his eyes and sighed quietly.  

   But Sherlock didn’t stop there.  “Is this your drug?  Power?  Do you not like it when you don’t get your way?  It makes you angry.”

   “Shut up!  That’s an order.”

   Sherlock’s mouth closed tightly and John’s heart hammered in his chest.

   Circe reached out and stroked Sherlock’s cheek where she had struck him before.  He turned away, frowning.  John felt anger flare inside him as she leaned down and purred in Sherlock’s ear, “You’re too nosy.  And noisy.  You need to be right about everything.  You want people to pay attention to you.”

   Sherlock scoffed, John silently and unconsciously mirroring him.

   “Ah!” she said, standing up.  “Not just people.   _People_ are below you.  There’s someone in particular you want attention from.”

   An intense frown crossed Sherlock’s face.  He said, “Do you ever get intimate with your clients?  Outside of this?”

   “Never.  It’s someone close to you, but you want them to be closer.  You seem above it all, oblivious, but you want this person to be forceful with you.  You want them to take you in the heat of passion.”

    John felt a pleasing twinge in his gut as he thought about getting forceful with Sherlock.   _Focus, John.  She's just playing along with a fantasy.  Probably a popular one that doesn't apply to Sherlock._

   Circe ripped Sherlock’s jacket open, throwing buttons.  

   Sherlock’s jaw set and he asked, “What happens when you don’t get what you want?”

   Circe glared at him.  “This isn’t going to work if we’re both going to be the dominant one, you know.”  Then her eyes widened and she smiled.  “That’s what the problem is.”

    John's attention focused on the woman, wanton curiosity burning behind his eyes.

   “What?” Sherlock demanded, cocking his head to the side.

   John leaned in as close as he dared.

   “You want to take charge, but you want _them_ to make the first move.”

     _What?_

   Sherlock swallowed.  Nervously, he whispered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

   Circe pushed Sherlock’s chest and he lost his balance, falling onto his back with his hands beneath him, forcing his back to arch.

   “Shut up!” she said again.  “I’m the one in charge here.”

   Sherlock rolled on the floor but made no move to get up.  John felt stifled in the small space.  The curtain was smothering him.  He needed to go to Sherlock, but was scared he would ruin whatever it was Sherlock was doing.

   Circe spoke, “People praise you, yes?”

   Sherlock nodded carefully.

   “Answer.”

   Sherlock licked his lips.  “Yes.  The more intelligent ones.”

   “Good boy.”  She stroked his hair.  “How about the one you want?”

   “Yes.  Constantly.”

   “But you want more?”

    John saw Sherlock’s mouth move but couldn’t hear the answer.  

    Circe straddled Sherlock on the floor.  “Do you want them to be rough with you?”

   “Sometimes,” Sherlock said.

   “Strict?”

   “He is.”

    John almost felt like he was going to burst out of his skin.   _Sherlock is too good at this game.  I'm struggling to keep up, but he seems to almost anticipate what she will say._

   “We can be strict then.  This is your time to play out your fantasy.  Who is he?”

   Just then, the door swung open.  John heard Daedalus say quickly, “Come, we have a situation and I need you.”

   Circe looked at him.  Grace, who John had all but forgotten, slipped out of the closet.  

   Circe pointed to Sherlock and said, “He’s not finished yet.  We were just getting somewhere.”

   “Now!” Daedalus hissed under his breath.

   Circe climbed off of Sherlock, apologising.  Firmly, she assured him that she would be right back.

   As soon as they left Sherlock alone, John jumped from behind the curtain.  By the time he crossed the room Sherlock had already slipped his hands under his feet and was pulling at the ropes with his teeth.  When he heard John, he froze.

   “John?  How long have you been there?”

   John pulled Sherlock’s blindfold off, tousling his hair.  “How did you know it was me?”

   Sherlock smirked, humouring John with a withered look.

   Then John cupped his cheeks and kissed the smirk right off of his face.

   When John released him to untie his hands, Sherlock sputtered, “John?” with an uncomfortable laugh.

   John felt heat blossom on his face as Sherlock leaned forward, touching his forehead to John’s.  “Let’s get downstairs,” he said.  “We need to see what’s going on.”

   When they got downstairs, the place was in chaos.  A man in nothing but red pants and suspenders ran past them, almost knocking John over.  Sherlock grabbed him to stop him from falling and John let himself lean in a little too far.

   Daedalus was in the center of the room, waving his hands for attention.  “Everyone remain calm.  The police are on their way.”

   “Police?” John asked, alarmed.

   Grace found them and walked over, panic all over her face.  “It’s Cassandra.  She’s dead.”  Then she burst into tears, leaning against John’s chest as he wrapped his arms around her.  Sherlock and John looked at each other, and John nodded, knowing that Sherlock was going to leave him to investigate.  “What happened?” John asked Grace when they were alone.

   “I don’t know.  I got here right before you did.”

   John made shushing noises while he held her close and rubbed her back in small circles as she cried.  

   Sherlock swam against the current of onlookers to make it back to John.  

   “The police have just arrived.  I’m going with them.  I think she was poisoned.”  He turned towards Grace, adding, “Same as your husband, I think.”

   John nodded seriously.  “I’ll come with you.”

   Grace gave a loud wail.  Several police officers ran upstairs while Daedalus shouted in protest.

   John looked at Sherlock intently.  “What can I do to help, Sherlock?”

   Sherlock paced, his hands in a prayer pose in front of his pursed lips.  “I need to think!” he shouted.  Then he bolted up the stairs, focused.  Several minutes went by before Sherlock came back, this time followed by several police officers.  He no longer wore his mask.  

   He walked past John, quickly saying, “I think it’s solved, John.  I just have to run some tests.”

   “Great, I’ll come with you.”  John was uneasy and didn’t want to let Sherlock out of his sight again.

   “John, I need you to do something for me.”

   “Anything.”

   Sherlock nodded at Grace and said, “Take her home.  And John-- be careful.”

   John opened his mouth to protest selfishly, but he could feel Grace shaking, so he agreed.

   John made his way towards the exit quickly with Grace in tow.  Together they managed to slip past the overwhelmed officers.  Sherlock moved behind an inspector as he slapped handcuffs on Circe.  

 


	18. Felled in the Night by the Ones You Think You Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock interrogate their suspect and the other shoe drops.

   John expeditiously saw that Grace was safely home and immediately turned to leave for the station again.  She tried to get him to stay, but John insisted that he need to be with Sherlock.  He made sure that Grace bolted the door before walking out to the main road and hailing a cab.

   When John reached the police station, all he had to do to be let to a room in the back was give his name at the main desk.  Crossing the threshold, John saw that Sherlock was already there, his eyes alight, speaking quickly at a man in a suit.  Spotting John, he turned his attention to the rumpled doctor and exclaimed with relief, “John!  There you are.”

   Alleviation flooded through John just at the sight of Sherlock.

   “Sherlock, what’s going on?” he asked.

   “Who is this?” the man in the suit asked, obviously aggravated.

   “This is my partner Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock explained impatiently.  

   John greeted the man and learned that he was Detective Inspector Dominic Boyd.

   Sherlock stepped forward and grabbed John by the shoulders, catching his gaze.  “John,” he stated quietly.  “They’ve arrested the wrong woman.  I know it.  Do you think Circe is a murderer?  I couldn’t see her when I was with her before, but you could.  I need you to think.  Remember how she acted.”

   John nodded and shut his eyes, trying to replay the scene as accurately as possible in his head, knowing that Sherlock was relying on him.  Finally John shook his head.  “I don’t know, Sherlock.  Nothing really sticks out to me, but I can’t be sure.”

   Sherlock straightened himself, squaring his shoulders while still holding John.

   An outburst from the hall stole their attention.  Daedalus was shouting as he moved toward the exit.  “My wife is innocent!  Innocent, I tell you!  I will prove it and you fools will see!”  Without another word he stormed out of the building and into the night.

   John looked at Sherlock in alarm.  Sherlock turned back to DI Boyd.  Briskly he said, “I need to speak with her.  Then I need access to the body and a lab.  Contact Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.  He’ll--”

   “He’s already phoned,” Boyd interrupted.  “I hope you’re as good as he says you are.  You can speak to her for ten minutes.  I’ve just arranged for you to have access to evidence.  But so help me, if you muck up this investigation I will come down on you, and your partner, _and_ Lestrade.  Do you understand me?”

   “Ye of little faith,” moaned Sherlock.

   John stepped forward to interpret.  “He means he understands.”

   Boyd shrugged and threw up his hands in surrender.  “Alright.  Follow me.”

   He led them into the room where Circe sat, handcuffed to her metal chair in front of a matching table.  Fat tears rolled down her face but she made no noise or movement.  She did not even acknowledge them as they entered.  

   “Her name is Olga Falshespur,” Boyd stated.  “Your ten minutes start now, Sherlock.  Make them count.”

   Sherlock wasted no time.  He leaned over the table, palms spread.  “Did you kill anyone?” he demanded.  

   Olga continued to cry but made no sign she even heard him.  Sherlock tried again and again with the same result for several minutes.  John spent the time alternately watching and pacing.  His right hand flexed and spasmed and his body was tense.  With each passing second, Sherlock seemed to lose more and more of his conviction.  John was beginning to have doubts himself.  He checked his watch again, noting that Boyd had already given them over their allotted time, and pulled Sherlock aside, whispering, “Sherlock, are you absolutely sure about this?  Didn’t they find something in her room?  And Cassandra _had_ just seen Circe-or Olga-right before you went up.  What if she did poison her?”

   Sherlock looked at Olga intently, his mouth set in a hard line, thinking.  

   “No, John.  I can’t believe that.  Something just doesn’t fit.”

   “Okay,” John said, placing his faith, perhaps recklessly, in Sherlock, as usual.  “Okay.”

   Sherlock turned back to Olga and said desperately, “I’m trying to help you.  Why won’t you say anything?”

   Finally the woman moved.  Her mouth opened silently, then closed.  Shutting her eyes tight, she whispered only three words: “I loved her.”

   Sherlock appeared confused.  Before John could confer with him, his mobile decided to wail loudly.  John answered it, stepping into the corner.

   “John?” came a strangled cry from the other end of the line.  “Help!  I need you!  He’s here and he’s acting crazy.  He said if the police came he would kill me.”

   “Grace?” John whispered back fervently.  “Who’s trying to hurt you?”

   Grace breathed heavily into the mouth piece.  “Felix!”

   “Who?”

   “Daedalus!”

   John’s face went pale.  “I’ll be right there.  Hold on.”  He hung up and turned to Sherlock, wild.  “I have to go.  She’s in trouble.  The police can’t help.”

   Sherlock nodded stiffly.  “I need to go to the lab and see if I can put an end to this.”

   John, almost out the door, turned back to beg Sherlock to hurry.

   Sherlock assured him that he would, then said quietly, “Stay safe.”

   “Always,” John grinned nervously, before storming out of the police station and practically running down the street as he waved his arms for a cab.  

     The ride back to the cottage seemed to pass slowly, the gently falling snow contrasting sharply with the adrenaline racing through John’s system.

   When the car reached the edge of the park, John jumped out, throwing money over his shoulder.  He hoped it was enough.  

   He made his way quickly up the path around the park and up to the cottage.  The house was dark.  John reached into his pocket, cursing when he realised he had left his firearm back in London.  He crouched and jogged quietly to a window.  Moving slowly, he raised his head just enough to see inside.  The place looked empty.  

   Seeing no better plan, John tried the front door.  It was open.  He peered around, all of his military training making itself useful again.  John saw that the coast was clear and jumped inside, shutting the door silently behind him.

   “Grace?” he whispered as loudly as he dared.  There was no reply.  He moved from room to room, his eyes dimly taking in furniture knocked over and things wildly strewn about.  Along one wall, white pieces of a shattered ceramic vase shimmered in the moonlight streaming through the large window.  John’s breath caught in his throat.  He had seen numerous dead bodies in his life, had even been responsible for a few, but he was never truly ready to see another one.  He hoped he wouldn’t have to see yet another one in the foreseeable future.

   Resignation heavy in his voice, he whispered again, “Grace?”

   Seconds passed like hours, John’s heartbeat pounding in his ears as he crept forward.  Then from a dark doorframe down the hall he heard a noise.

   “John?”

   John let out the breath he had been holding and rushed towards Grace.  He grabbed her and began turning her about, trying to assess any damage.  Blood soaked through the arm of her shirt where the fabric was cleanly sliced.  “Are you okay?  Where is he?”

   “It’s just a small cut.  I’m fine.  I think he’s outside, near the greenhouse.”

   “Okay, just stay here.  I’m going to check.  Phone the police.”

   Grace grabbed him, pleading, “Don’t go, John.  He’s gone mad.  He can’t believe his wife killed my husband and now Cassandra.  But she did, didn’t she?”

   Her eyes were manic.  John gently pulled her hands off of him, moving away.  “I don’t know, Grace.  It looks like she might be innocent.  I need to go speak to her husband.  Maybe he’ll listen to reason.”

   “What?” Grace shrieked quietly.

   John turned away and made his way outside.  He could see fresh tracks in the snow towards the greenhouse and his body tensed.  He had almost reached the frosted glass entrance when his mobile went off again, blaring against the snow-hushed silence.  John answered it so fast he almost dropped it.  Rather than say anything, he panted into the phone, trying to catch his breath.

   “John?”

    _Sherlock_ , John thought. _Timing…_

   “John, I can hear you breathing.  What’s happening?  Are you in danger?”

   John swallowed.

   “It was poison, John,” Sherlock continued.  “Aconite.  John, where are you?  John?”

   John rounded the corner and entered the dark greenhouse, whispering, “Greenhouse.”

   “Good.  John I need you to do something for me.  I need you to very discreetly look for Aconitum Napellus.  The petals are purple and hooded.  Do you see it?”

   John hissed, “Sherlock there are a lot of flowers in here.  How am I supposed to know which ones you are looking for?”

   “They should be separated, probably partially hidden.  Whatever you do, don’t touch them.  Avoid ingesting as well, they’re extremely toxic.”

   John exhaled in a sharp sigh and tried to peer around the overgrown plant menagerie.  He took a moment to be impressed that these plants somehow flourished when the world was dead around them.

   “John?  Have you found them?  Hold on, I’ll send you a picture.”

   John turned another corner and gasped, “Sherlock--”

   Then with an abrupt crack, John’s world went black.


	19. Love is Just a Lyric in a Children's Rhyme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John awakens.   
> Things take a turn for the worse.

   John blinked heavily as he came to.  His skull was pounding and he felt like he was going to be sick.  He was sat in a chair and tried to move, only to find that he could not.  John winced as he stretched his jaw, the movement putting pressure on the rest of his throbbing head.  

   He tried to move again, this time realising that his ankles and wrists were both bound tightly.  Rope was coiled around his torso, fastening him to the chair.  His vision swam and he desperately willed his eyes to focus on his hands, caught together, as he breathed slowly and concentrated on the gold ring on his finger.  John let out a strangled sigh as he waited for the double vision to focus into only one ring.  When he felt like he was more in control of his senses, he chanced a look around.  He was back inside Grace’s sitting room.  As he tried to speak his tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth.  

   “Grace?” John croaked, then breathed through his nose: in and out, in and out.  He heard slow, steady steps approach him from behind and he stiffened.  

   “I’m sorry about all this.  I really am,” Grace said as she walked around so John could see her.  Her voice was calm, and she sounded sincere.

   “What are you sorry for?” John asked, keeping his voice steady.

   Grace laughed musically, then scoffed.  “Don’t act stupid, John.  I know you’re smarter than that.”

   “You killed Daedalus-or Felix-whoever.  You killed him, didn’t you?”

   Grace threw her head back, smiling with a grimace.  “I had to, John.  He was in my way.  Just like that irritating Cassandra.  Maybe if she ever learned to keep her mouth shut, she would still be around to use it.”

   John was struggling to process everything with the pain in his head.  “But-” he protested.  “But, your husband...”

   Grace stopped smiling and glared at John.  With a snarl she said, “Yes.  Dear, sweet, perfect Noel.  He never really loved me.  Not like I deserved to be loved.”  She began to gesture wildly, her voice rising excitedly.  “Don’t you think I deserve to be loved?”

   John pointedly looked away from her, trying not to provoke her unintentionally.

    _Sherlock will come_ , he said to himself, calm sureness washing over him.

   As if she could read his mind, she scoffed, “You think he’s coming for you?”

   At this, John had to meet her eyes.  He had to read what she was thinking, if he could.  Her eyes sparkled as she said, “He is, you know.  I’m counting on it.  Slight change of plans, actually.  I was supposed to get away tonight.  She was supposed to look guilty enough.  But you had to ruin everything.”

   She leaned over and whispered in John’s ear, her nearness turning his stomach and making him shudder.  “So I’m going to ruin everything for him, unless he lets me go.”

   With conviction, John assured her, “Sherlock won’t let you get away with this.  You don’t know him.”

   “Oh, but he will,” she replied brightly.  “Because if he doesn’t, I’m going to kill you.  I’ll kill you right in front of him and make him watch, helpless to save you.”

   John was filled with rage.  His body spasmed and he pulled at his constraints uselessly.  “No, you won’t.  Sherlock’s not sentimental like that.  He’ll stop you, no matter what.”

   Grace frowned at him exaggeratedly, as if she were scolding a small child gently, “Oh, John.  You’re so naive.  It’s darling.”

   Grace moved behind him again and John craned his neck painfully as he tried to follow her movements.  Giving up, he returned his attention to loosening the restraints.  He could hear the sound of a drawer opening and Grace digging through it.  She shut the drawer again and walked back, sitting on the sofa casually.  In her hand she held a syringe.  

   “That’s the poison,” John stated.

   “Four for you.  Like it?  I made it myself.  This is my most concentrated dose yet,” she exclaimed proudly, eying the liquid fondly.  “I was saving it for a special occasion.”

   John needed to keep her talking until Sherlock’s arrival, which he hoped would be sooner rather than later.  He licked his lips and tried for sincerity when he asked, “Why are you doing this, Grace?  I want to understand.”

   Her expression softened and she stared off into space, lost in a memory.  Then she spoke, airily, “Falling in love is equally the best and the worst feeling in the world.”

   John nodded, having to only pretend slightly to understand, but she ignored him.  “I thought I loved Noel.  I really did.  He seemed so wonderful.  He was smart, talented, handsome.  I was so grateful that he had chosen me, of all people, you know?”  She looked at John and he found himself nodding in earnest.  This part he felt he could relate to, in a way.

   Grace tilted her head, twirling the syringe in her fingers.  “But.  Over time, his perfection began to wear on me.  I tried to find a flaw, anything to even the score, if only just a little.  He told me he loved me, but I felt inferior, and I no longer believed him.”

   John swallowed, blinking.   _This I can_ definitely _relate to_.

   Grace’s voice grew pained.  “He tried,” she said.  “He found out about the club and suggested it as a way to boost my confidence.  Then I heard they had a dominatrix.  This may make me sound horrible, but I wanted to see Noel humiliated a little.  So Noel had his sessions with Circe while I watched.”

   John peered at her, trying to see if she would notice him moving carefully, slowly loosening the ropes.

   Oblivious, she continued, “At first it was such a thrill.  I felt empowered.  I was so caught up in the sensation that it took a long while for me to realise that it was she, and not he, who was making me feel that way.  So we began an affair, my Olga and I.  She would sneak to this cottage when she could so we could be together.  It was perfect.”

   “So what happened?”

   “Noel caught wind,” Grace said wistfully with a sigh.  “He said I had to put an end to it, so I tried to poison him.  The dose was much too weak and he was merely ill.  I convinced him that I would end the affair if we kept going to The Palace.  I asked Olga to run away with me, but she said she didn’t want to hurt Noel.  She ‘liked him as a person’.”  Grace’s voice turned into a sneer, “Of course she did.”

   “That must have been difficult,” John commiserated, his heart not at all in it.

   “I decided to make the decision easier for her.  I poisoned his drink.  He died in her chamber.  Later, after it was ruled as a freak occurrence, I asked her to run away with me again.  But-” she paused, tears welling in her eyes.  “She wasn’t willing to leave her husband and her life here anymore.”  Grace turned, her eyes burning, her voice harsh.  “After everything I did!  Because there’s no such thing as love, John Watson.  That’s a lesson you should learn right now.”

   “I’ll thank you to leave his opinions untarnished,” growled a deep voice from somewhere behind John.  

   “Sherlock!  Be careful,” John warned, but Grace was already on her feet and at John’s side.  With a surprising feat of strength, she spun John’s chair enough that he could see down the dark hallway to the source of the interruption.  

   Out of the shadows loomed a tall, dark figure and John almost wept from relief.

   Grace stood behind John, shielded.  In one quick motion she uncapped the syringe and pulled John’s head painfully back, exposing his neck to her needle.  She had her arm up, ready to jab John’s jugular at a moment’s notice.  

   Sherlock moved almost imperceptibly, his arms up in surrender.

   “John, are you alright?” he asked, his voice slipping just outside of complete control.

   “Neber bet her,” John mumbled through Grace’s fingers, which were cupped over his mouth, holding his head steady.

   “Let him go, Grace.  The police will be here any minute.  I heard everything.  This is bad enough, don’t make it any worse.”  Sherlock spoke rationally, but Grace was not in the least bit swayed.  

   “You don’t understand.  Someone like you couldn’t understand.  But John does,” she cried.

   John’s eyes widened, in a panic.  Unless Grace calmed down, she was likely to do something dangerous.  

   “Grace, listen to me.  I know what you did.  I know you must have planted the poison in Olga’s room when you left John alone upstairs.  You showed him the area where he could watch, didn’t you?”

   “She was going to expose what I had done.  She wanted nothing to do with me after I killed Noel for her.  I had to point the finger in her direction a little.  I thought maybe she would choose me if only to save herself.  But no, she betrayed me instead.”

   “No, she didn’t.  Did she, John?”  Sherlock was only a few feet away from them, his eyes darting nervously to John.

   “Nm,” John concurred, still muffled.  

   “What?” Grace asked, disbelieving.

   “She never gave you up.  I had a special toxin report run on Cassandra’s blood, and found faint traces of Aconitum Napellus, commonly known as Monkshood or Wolf’s Bane.  A dangerous flower I remembered seeing in the back corner of your greenhouse.”

   “She never said anything?” Grace whispered, sobbing.  She released John’s head and he leaned farther away from her syringe.  

   “She did say something,” Sherlock said calmly.  

   “What?” Grace asked, tears sparkling in her eyes.

   Sherlock kept his gaze fixed steadily on her as he stated, “She said that she loved you.”

   Grace barked a dry sob, dropping the needle and covering her mouth with her hands as she stumbled backwards.  

   Sherlock acted quickly, kneeling down and rolling the syringe across the floor and away before his fingers flew up to untie John.  When John was loose, he slumped forward onto Sherlock’s shoulder, wrapping his arms gratefully around his detective.

   Sherlock was unprepared but managed to catch him, whispering, “John.  My John.”

   John breathed in the familiar smell of him, and nothing else mattered.  Sherlock had him, so he was safe.

   John pulled back to look into Sherlock’s softened eyes.  He leaned forward to kiss him, but stopped when he saw movement.  Grace was standing behind Sherlock, fire raging in her eyes.

   John didn’t have time to think.  He pushed Sherlock aside and rose to step over him.  In a swift motion, he tackled Grace to the floor.  He tried to snatch the deadly needle from her, but she held on savagely.  John thought he heard Sherlock shout his name.  Then, as quickly as it had begun, skin was pierced, the plunger pushed, and it was over.  All was lost.

   Sherlock screamed as John and Grace both stilled.  John looked down, feeling lightheaded, at the syringe stuck in the leg.

   Not mine.

   John breathed and rolled off of Grace.  Sherlock pulled him to his feet roughly, checking John for injury before he saw Grace’s fatal pinprick.

   The door was kicked in, startling them all, and in burst DI Boyd, followed by several of his officers.

   “She’s dying,” Sherlock explained.  “You need to get a confession from her now.”

   “Alright,” Boyd said.  I’m on it.  You go home and get with Lestrade.  I’ll coordinate through him for your official statements.  Let us take it from here.”

   “Wait,” Grace said, and everyone froze.  She took a shaky breath and said, “Tell Olga I’m sorry, yeah?  For everything.”

   After a long pause, Sherlock nodded.  John winced involuntarily and Sherlock grabbed him, pulling him out of the cottage.  When they got past all the officers, Sherlock took off his long coat and wrapped it tightly around John, holding his chin between thumb and forefinger for a second before turning to pull John away.  They found Mycroft’s driver waiting for them at the bottom of the hill.

   John climbed into the car and Sherlock shoved in after him.  On the way back to the hotel, Sherlock fretted over John’s head wound, saying she must have struck John with the blunt side of a shovel, while John insisted that he was fine.

   When they reached the hotel, Sherlock was still agonizing, so John shut him up by his favourite method: he kissed him.

   Sherlock pulled away, his eyes full of surprise.  Then he stepped out of the car, reaching back inside to help John out.  When John was standing in front of him, Sherlock looked at him for a moment, his expression unreadable.  Gently, he tugged John’s hand and led him gingerly back to their room.

 


	20. The Pull of What We Can't Give Up Takes Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock spend the night together.

    When the hotel elevator door opened onto their floor, the adrenaline from the night’s events left John suddenly, causing him to slump.  Sherlock caught him and half-carried him to their room.  Together they stepped inside, not bothering to find a light switch.  Sherlock carefully deposited John on the bed and walked away.  Through the daze that still held him captive, John heard the bathwater running.  

    Sherlock returned, pulling John to his feet and undressing him, layer by layer.  He then lulled John into the warm tub before undressing himself and climbing in behind him, turning off the rush of water.  John lay his back against Sherlock’s chest, sighing as his head came to rest against Sherlock’s neck and shoulder.  

    With his long fingers, Sherlock gently massaged John’s temples.  John closed his eyes and let the tension be pulled from his body.  Sherlock moved away from one temple, replacing his fingers with soft kisses.  John sighed again and Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, stroking his chest.  Then Sherlock’s hands moved beneath the water innocently and John’s cock twitched.

    “Touch me, Sherlock,” he whispered.

    Sherlock paused for a moment, but John’s hips arched, his body displaying his need.  Sherlock grasped him fully, kissing John’s neck.  John moaned as his hips thrust again, urging Sherlock’s hand to move against him.  Sherlock complied, and John reached back to tug Sherlock’s curls at the nape of his neck, whimpering.

    Panting and afraid he was going to finish right there, John stilled Sherlock’s hand.  Sherlock watched him, curious.

    “Let’s go to the bed,” John gasped.

    They toweled off quickly and Sherlock grabbed John’s face, kissing him sweetly.  Sherlock flicked his tongue against John’s lips, and the intensity of their kisses increased.  John’s hands moved furiously, wanting to touch all of Sherlock at once but finding the feat heartbreakingly impossible.  Sherlock’s mouth never left his as he pulled him onto the bed.  When Sherlock finally broke away, his eyes onyx orbs, he growled, “I want you, John.”

     “You have me,” John whispered, pressing his palms against Sherlock’s chest.

     Sherlock kissed him again, savouring the taste of his mouth.  When he moved away, John felt the cold air invade the space and he shivered.  Sherlock sifted through one of their cases carefully.  Finding what he was looking for, he returned to display the item for John’s inspection: lubricant.

     Sherlock looked nervous and reproachful.  John pretended to contemplate the suggestion for a moment  before pulling Sherlock down into a kiss, marking his whole-hearted agreement.  Together, they crawled towards the center of the bed.  John could feel Sherlock’s erection press against his own and his abdomen.  

     He reached down and gave Sherlock a few slow strokes, whispering Sherlock’s name like an incantation.

_This is what bliss feels like._

    Sherlock pressed his damp forehead to John’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut, shuddering.  John pulled his hand away, wanting to prolong their love-making.

   _That’s what we are doing,_ he thought. _This is love._

     Sherlock pulled away, grabbing the lube bottle and popping the cap open.  He used his hand to slicken both of their prominent erections, then moved to press a finger into John, trying to prepare him.

     John winced a little, but pressed into Sherlock’s hand.  When one finger became bearable, Sherlock added a second, then a third.  John was panting, leaking pre-cum as he stroked himself to the rhythm Sherlock set.  

    The fingers were removed and John protested incoherently.  Sherlock adjusted their pelvises and guided himself to John, hesitating to meet his gaze.  

     John nodded as he reached up, cupping Sherlock’s cheek and running the pad of his thumb across smooth skin.  Seemingly out of nowhere, John worried that maybe it was he who had been administered the poison, after all.  

   _Maybe I passed out, and this is just one last dream before I die._ John smiled. _Well, if that’s the case, better make it an excellent one._

    He pulled Sherlock towards him for a kiss.  Their lips met at the same moment Sherlock entered him, and he gasped.  Sherlock moved and John cried out in pain, so he pulled out carefully, kissing John’s jaw.

     “Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, his voice cavernous with concern.

     John was silent for a moment, mentally assessing the damage.  Then he replied, “Yeah.  I’m okay, I think.”

    “Should we stop?” Sherlock sounded piteously unsure.

    “No, no.  Just… go slower.  I have to get used to this.”

    Sherlock coated his phallus in a copious amount of lube and lined himself up again.  He hesitated, then reached out to grab one of the extra pillows, lifting John’s hips to place it beneath him.

    This time, Sherlock moved at a glacial pace, which was easier for John but set him squirming.  He wanted more.  Sherlock moved in as far as he dared and stopped.  John felt his fullness and it made him feel complete.  Lazily, he kissed Sherlock deeply.  

    “I’m going to move,” Sherlock warned, pulling away to meet his eyes.

    “Okay.”  John nodded seriously.  

    The sensations that rippled through John were much less unpleasant than before, and when Sherlock moved, John’s erection was pressed between their friction, making his head spin.

    “Again,” he commanded, and Sherlock obliged, gasping as he steadily increased their pace.

    They clung to each other, muscles wound tightly.  As close as they were, they needed to be closer.  To be sewn together.   Their bodies worked against them, moisture from their boiling heat threatening to force them apart.  They battled the void, meeting skin to skin, molecule to molecule.

    “Ah!” Sherlock shuddered, his head dropping to John’s shoulder, as if John was pulling him in while simultaneously tearing him apart: centrifugal force.

    In response to his outcry, John thrust his hips wildly, sliding himself between their abdomens.

     “Come with me, Sherlock.  Together.  Not a second before or after.”

    “Yes, yes.  God, yes.  Please, John.”  Sherlock was gasping, his body finally overriding his ever present mind.  He could feel heat burning in his groin; he was a volcano, ready to erupt.

    “Fuck, yes.  Now!” John commanded.  Sherlock convulsed as John added to the slickness already between them.  They trembled a few more times, clinging to each other, no longer able to continue but not wanting it to be over.

    Eventually they caught their breaths and they pressed their foreheads together, an all new type of stillness settling between them.  Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John’s broad shoulder blades as the army doctor wrapped his own strong arms tenderly around the lanky detective’s waist.

    After a moment, Sherlock slowly pulled away, John grimacing weakly as he felt Sherlock leave him.  Sherlock grabbed a towel and cleaned them both off before collapsing onto John’s chest.  He could hear John’s heart pounding.

    John ran a hand absentmindedly through Sherlock’s curls as his mind raced.

     _What just happened?_

_I love him._

_Why is he acting like this?_

_Does he love me?_

_Is he still pretending?_

_I love him._

_I feel sick._

_I’ve never been so happy._

_I love him._

    “Sherlock,” he said.  He wanted to tell Sherlock how he was feeling.  He wanted to know what Sherlock was thinking.  He didn’t know where to start.

    “Shh, John.  Go to sleep,” Sherlock said, his breath tickling John’s skin.  “You’re alright.  I won’t let anyone hurt you anymore tonight.”

    Sherlock pulled the blankets over them both and sighed contentedly.  John nestled himself into the bed until he was comfortable, adoring the weight of Sherlock on top of him.  John closed his eyes and listened to Sherlock’s breathing slow.  

********

    John awoke abruptly, shivering.  Sunlight streamed through the window, blindingly reflecting off of the snow.  Seeking Sherlock’s warmth, John automatically reached out on both sides, grasping nothing but cold sheets.

    Alarm woke him fully.  He sat up in the bed looking around, but Sherlock was nowhere in sight.  John took a slow, deep breath in an effort to calm himself.

_Focus._

    He could faintly smell cigarettes.

_Sherlock was still here not long ago.  I’ll yell at him for smoking later._

    John tried his best to think of every possible scenario.  

_Sherlock is getting coffee._

_Sherlock went for a morning stroll because he got up but didn’t want to wake me._

_Sherlock is getting me breakfast._

_No, that’s too romantic for him._

    John got up and slowly dressed, waiting for Sherlock to burst through the door at a moment’s notice and undress him again.

    John’s stomach rumbled.

_He better be getting me breakfast._

    The doorknob turned and John grinned.

    His face fell when a woman in a uniform, and not Sherlock, entered the room.

    “Sorry,” she said.  “Your room has already been returned and I need you to vacate so I can clean.  If not, we’ll have to charge you another night.”

    John shook his head, nervously laughing.  “No, there must be some sort of mistake.  Did you get the room number wrong?   My…  He’s coming back.”

    “Someone already checked out.  You’ll need to take up any issue with the front desk.”

    John’s face went ghostly pale.

_No, she’s wrong.  Maybe it’s the room next door.  I’ll go downstairs and get this sorted._

    “I’ll do just that.  Can I have a minute to finish getting dressed and packed?”

    “Of course,” she said, shutting the door again as she left.

    John finished dressing quickly and turned to pack the cases.  He froze when he only saw one.  His legs threatened to give out beneath him and he reached for the bed, managing to sit just before he would have fallen.

_Maybe Sherlock just now checked out,_ John thought, manic. _Maybe he took his case and checked out and he’s going ‘round to get the car._

    John began to hyperventilate.

_He didn’t leave me.  He wouldn’t have just left me all alone._

    Collecting himself as best as he could, John packed his case and carried it out into the hall, pushing past the cleaning woman who was loudly popping gum as she looked through John.

    The elevator ride down to the main floor was like descending into the Underworld.  

    He approached the young man at the desk and attempted a friendly smile.  “Hello.  There appears to be some sort of a mix-up.  I was told my room was returned, but-”

    “Excuse me, sir.  Are you Doctor Watson?” the young man cut in.  

    “Yes.”

    “Yes, sir.  Your friend returned the room this morning, not long ago.”

    John remembered how to breathe.   _So Sherlock_ was _just here._

    The young man continued, “He said to leave a message for you that the car was waiting to take you back to London.  It seemed like he had urgent business to attend to.”

    “Ah,” John exclaimed.  His panic subsided enough to allow him to recollect that Sherlock needed to give his statement to Lestrade.  Obviously, that was a priority.  

    John felt much calmer as he thanked the young man and turned to leave.  

    “Wait, sir!” the concierge cried.  “I almost forgot: he left a letter for you.”

    “Ta,” John said cheerfully as he accepted the crisp envelope with his free hand.

    With a slight wave he exited the building, spotting the black car parked just on the side kerb.  John put his case in the car boot and got in the backseat, still holding the envelope.  

    The car pulled away and John closed his eyes, leaning his head against the frigid glass.

_That’s just like Sherlock to skip off without notice.  At least he actually left a note this time._

    John opened his eyes and sat up straight.  He turned the envelope over in his fingers, feeling giddy every time he saw his name in Sherlock’s script on the front: John.

    Unable to wait any longer, John carefully ripped the envelope.  He unfolded the single sheet of paper and his eyes scanned the words left just for him in Sherlock’s sloppy hand.

    Reaching the end he quickly lowered the partition and said two words: “Pull over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are getting close to the end! Only a few chapters left!  
> I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been reading this!  
> I love all the feedback! The comments make me smile and keep me motivated.  
> Also I want to say thank you again to Chucksauce, who is always there for me when I leave editing until the last minute. She is a trooper and much too generous with her time!


	21. Why Do You Fill My Sorrow With the Words You've Borrowed?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is left with the aftermath of Sherlock's letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are very much nearing the end. Only two more chapters left!  
> I just wanted to say thank you to everyone reading and for all the lovely comments. They really make my day better!  
> As always, bless Chucksauce in all her wonderous glory.

    “Pull over!” John shouted.  Quickly, the driver moved the car over to the shoulder as John scrambled for the door handle.  He managed to get the door open, then realised he still had to unbelt himself.  After the struggle had ended and he was free from the car, John ran to lean over the thin piece of railing, where he was promptly sick.

    Long after he had nothing left in his stomach, John continued to heave painfully.  When he finished he leaned back, wiping the corner of his mouth with his sleeve.  Chilled wind stung at the tears that clung to the corners of his eyes.  John collected himself as best as he was able and got back into the car.

    “Sir?” the driver asked.

    “Drive on,” John croaked, rolling the partition back up as the car merged into traffic once again.

    He forcibly swallowed, hands shaking roughly as he picked up the source of his distress.  His eyes focused on each individual word slowly, his breath becoming increasingly shallow as he read:

 

        Dear John,

            As I write this, I am watching you sleep.  If you smell any cigarette smoke later, sorry.  I needed one.  I am off to London to wrap up this eventful case.  I say eventful because of the impact it has clearly had on our lives.  

            Last night was a mistake.

            Promises made were broken.  It’s gone too far, John.  We can never return comfortably to the way we were before, so the best solution is to part ways.

          -Sherlock

 

    John read over the paper again and again until he became numb.  Time passed in no discernible unit of measure, and without warning he found himself deposited on Baker Street.

    He unlocked the door, feeling like he was going to be sick again.

    Cautiously, he made his way up the stairs.  The door to their flat was open.  

    “Sherlock?  Mrs. Hudson?”

    No answer.  John knew that he was alone from the stifling silence.  He pushed down the gnawing inside him that twisted his organs in distress and tried to focus on his surroundings.  Unfeeling, he dropped the case he hadn’t realised he had been carrying.  

    Everything looked the same, like Sherlock still hadn’t returned.  Only the open door told John anything otherwise.  John covered his mouth, muffling his breath and allowing him to focus on the ticking of the clock, which seemed louder than John had ever heard it.  He waited until the clock sounded loud enough to shatter his skull and he began to feel dizzy before he finally took another breath.  He looked around, eyes skittering over familiar objects that now seemed foreign and disgusting.

    Then he saw it-- the last strike of the hammer that shattered his heart.

    Lying on the mantlepiece, next to the skull, was a solitary silver wedding band.

    John wailed as he ripped the gold band off of his own finger and violently slammed it down next to Sherlock’s.  At least the bands were near each other: relics forming a shrine of sadness.

    John couldn’t be in the space Sherlock had stood as he had symbolically cast John’s love aside.  He stumbled roughly down the stairs and back out onto the cold and uncaring street.  His eyes darted every which way.  He wondered if Sherlock had just been there.  He felt like he could almost sense his presence still, though it was fading fast.  John needed to move.  He needed to do something.  So he picked a direction and walked quickly, head spinning like an owl as he went, desperate for any sign of the man he couldn’t let go.  

    John gasped in useless sobs that morphed into dry heaves.  

_Where is he?_

_Why did he leave me?_

    John pressed his palms roughly into his burning eyes, trying to clear his clouding vision.  He slipped into a side alley and slid against the wall until he was on the ground.  He tried to steady his breathing, tried to focus on halting the impending panic attack that threatened to take him.  He had sat there for several minutes, shuddering and willing his body to help him, when he heard a startled female voice above him.

    “John?”

    John looked up at the form of Sarah, hazy and unrecognisable.  

    “John?  What happened to you?  I got an emergency call to come pick you up here.”

    Sarah tried pulling John to his feet, gravity resisting strongly and John lending her no assistance, before he brushed her aside and stood, wiping his hands on his jeans and not meeting her eyes.  

    “Sorry, it’s nothing.  I’m fine,” he insisted.

    “Clearly, you’re not.  Let me take you home, John.”

    “No!” John shouted, and Sarah’s mouth fell open as she took a step away from him.  “I just- I can’t go home,” John said forcefully, but quieter.

    Carefully, Sarah asked, “Why not?”

    John’s mouth opened and closed, trying to explain, but not wanting to have to say it out loud.  “Because...I don’t know where _he_ is.”

    Sarah looked at him, confused.  Then she understood.  With a brisk nod, she said, “Come back to mine.  I’ll make you some tea, then we’ll get this all sorted.”

    John stared at her, uncomprehending.  Sarah gave him a sad smile and pulled him back onto the street.  She hailed a cab and they got in.  She gave John’s address, turning to him quickly and adding, “I’m just going to pack a few of your things for you.”

    The cab stopped and Sarah ran in.  John looked up and down the street, desperate for a tall detective in a long coat to come around the corner.  Sarah returned with one of John’s old duffels and gave her address to the driver.  She picked up one of John’s hands and stroked it consolingly while he continued his futile search for Sherlock.

    John was no less despondent by the time they reached Sarah’s.  Everyone was Sherlock, but no one was Sherlock.  Like a child, John let himself be led inside.  Sarah stood aimlessly for a moment, not sure of what to do to help.

    John found that he just wanted to be alone for a bit.  He pulled at his shirt and the grime from the alley and his distress made him feel contaminated.  With nothing better to distract him, he asked if he could use her shower.  She agreed quickly, glad to feel of use, and walked him to the shower, leaving his duffel and a clean towel before giving John a worried look and closing the door.

    John showered and dressed on autopilot, feeling neither the water nor the fabrics against his skin.  He was granted no reprieve from his mental anguish.  He went back downstairs slowly, hitting each step like the beat of a funeral march.  Sarah pressed a hot mug of tea into his hands and he sipped it, tasting ashes.

    “John, darling,” she began nervously.  “I tried ringing him, but it appears his mobile is off.  I left messages.”

    “Thanks,” John said, his voice sounding unconcerned.  John stood, setting his unfinished tea aside.  “I think I just need to lie down for a bit.”

    “Of course.”  Sarah rushed about, getting John a blanket.  He curled up on her sofa, closing his eyes uselessly against the onslaught in his mind.  Thoughts bashed and battered, overwhelming and smothering John into restless sleep full of endless nightmares.  

    He was startled awake by someone rapping urgently on the door.

_Sherlock?_

    John leapt to his feet and threw the door open before Sarah could reach it.  His face fell.

    “Mycroft?”

    The elder Holmes brother stepped in unceremoniously and nodded distastefully at Sarah.  Turning to John, he said, “You have to find him.  He’s gone ‘off the grid’, as they say.  It’s most unsettling.”  

    John squinted at him, unbelieving.  “But you know where everyone is.  You see more than God’s angels.”

    Mycroft grimaced, looking at Sarah in a way that very much suggested she remove herself from the conversation.  

    Defiantly, she crossed her arms and stood right where she was.

    “He is...not of sound mind at the moment, John.  I was worried something like this might happen.  Your being gone is too much for him.  I last caught sight of him near one of his danger zones, John.  He will relapse.”

    John felt like he was being treated as the instigator of the problem.  “ _He_ left _me_ , Mycroft!  That was _his_ decision!” John seethed.

    “He could die.”  Mycroft’s tone was steady but his eyes were wild like John had never seen them and he was taken aback.   Lowering his gaze, Mycroft hissed, “You don’t know what he was like before.  He could overdose.  We need to find him.”

    “Okay,” John said, fear for Sherlock’s safety taking the wheel.  “Okay,” he repeated, throwing on his coat and stepping out into the dimming afternoon.  

    Sarah stepped across the threshold, crossing her arms against the chill.  “John,” she said, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

    “I’m not even sure there’s anything I can do,” he replied coldly.

    John stood on the kerb for a moment, shutting his eyes tightly and massaging his temples.  He needed to think.

_Where could Sherlock possibly be?_

    Mycroft stepped up behind John, startling him.  “Take my car, John.  I’ll continue monitoring.  Call me if you find him.”

    “Likewise,” John said, getting into the car.  He closed the door and told the driver, “Scotland Yard.”

    The cab ride was tortuous.  Every second pounded into him another image of Sherlock high, hurt, or worse.  John tried to organise his mind and focus on the current objective.  John couldn’t help but wonder how what he had done had pushed Sherlock to the edge.  John had thought everything was wonderful, but could it be that he was delusional and Sherlock had found himself repelled by John’s obvious emotional longing?

    John found Lestrade quickly when he reached his destination.  

    “Greg, have you seen him?” he said desperately, clenching his fists to avoid clutching Lestrade’s jacket hysterically.

    “Sherlock?  He was here hours ago.  Here and gone, like a ghost.  He seemed… off.  What’s going on?” Lestrade said quickly, responding to John’s urgency.

    “Do you know where he went?”

    “No, sorry.  Is he okay?”

    John straightened his spine.  “I don’t know.”

    Lestrade nodded, knowing full-well what John’s tone meant.  “I’ll tell everyone to keep an eye out for him on their rounds.  If we find him, we’ll send him home.”

    “Thank you,” John said.  At the last second, he reached out and hugged Greg quickly.

    Stepping back into the car, he thought of the next logical place.  “Bart’s,” he said to the driver.

    At Bart’s, John checked all of the labs, apologising as he disrupted people who were not Sherlock, before he found Molly in the morgue.

    “Oh, John.  Hullo,” she squeaked.

    “Molly, have you seen him?”

    Molly looked around nervously, “Sherlock?  Sorry.”

    John exhaled.  

_Something’s not right._

    “Molly?” he asked.  “What is it?”

    Molly’s eyes darted around the room again.  

    “It’s nothing,” she said, brushing him off with a wave of her hand.

    Gently, John said her name again.

     After a long pause, Molly spoke so quickly John almost couldn’t keep up.  “Well, you see it’s my cat, Toby.  He ran away and, um, I’m sure he realised that it was a mistake to leave and I know he’s miserably regretting it.  But it’s okay, because I know that he really loves me and knows that I love him so he’ll be back.  Besides, who else will feed him?  I just have to give it time.”

    John said, “I’m sorry to hear, Molls.  I’m sure he’ll come home.  He’ll get hungry sooner or later.”

    Molly offered a sad smile and said, “Definitely.  Good luck, John.  Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

    John nodded, puzzled before shaking his head and shifting thoughts of a lost cat easily away.  He wanted to question Molly further, to dig and see if she was trying to tell him something, but he knew that Molly wouldn’t be so vague if she were talking about Sherlock.  She was a kind person, and clearly having distress of her own, so John tried to let it go and slowly dragged his feet out of Bart’s, pausing only to give it one last cursory glance.  With that, he got back into the car and called everyone he could think of: Donovan, Angelo, Dimmock.  Even Anderson.  No one could tell him anything.

    John walked all over London, going to all of Sherlock’s favourite haunts.  Not even the Homeless Network had any information to offer.  

    John stood in Trafalgar Square, visually scanning the crowd.  It was cold, and his body was aching.

_Please don’t be dead in a gutter, Sherlock.  Anything but that._

    John’s mobile buzzed impatiently in his pocket and he scrambled to answer it.  

    “Hello?”

    “John, go home.”  It was Mycroft.

    “Did you find him?”  John’s voice was painfully hopeful.

    “No, but you need to go home.  You need to rest, John.  It appears we won’t find him tonight.”

    John was adamant.  “We can’t give up.  What if he’s in trouble?”

    Mycroft sighed heavily.  “Sherlock will be found when he wants to be found.”

    “But-”

    “Go.  Home.”

    John took a deep breath, too weary to argue.  He found the nearest CCTV camera and nodded.  

    “Good,” Mycroft said.  “And John?”

    “Yeah?”

    “If you don’t go home, I _will_ make you.  I thought I’d try the polite way first.”

    John cursed under his breath.  He had almost forgotten that this Holmes was just as quick as his.  

 _Mine_ , John thought, and his heart lurched.   _But he’s not mine, is he?_

    As he started heading towards Baker Street, John was so immersed in his thoughts that he forgot that he never wanted to go home again.

_Not without Sherlock._

    John had had a taste of what being with Sherlock could be like, and he never wanted things to go back to the way they were before.  He berated himself all the way home, replaying small intimate moments they had shared in the past several days.  He agonised over whether or not he was too forceful, too blinded by his own feelings to consider that Sherlock was most likely lacking the same driving factors.  He trudged upstairs when he reached home, convincing himself that Sherlock really had loved him, but he had just come on too strongly and had scared him away.  He made his way into his bedroom as he conceded, _I’d rather have him here as only a friend than not have him at all._

    John pulled off his snow-dampened anorak and shoes before landing on his bed on his back, arms spread wide like a martyr.  

_Sherlock, it’ll be Christmas soon.  All I want this year is to know you’re alive.  That’s it._

    With that, the last levee in John broke.  Fat tears rolled across his temples and into his hair.  His body felt like it was made out of lead, heavy and unyielding.  John was left with the lonely sound of silence and that brought a fresh wave of pain.

    Then, just barely, John heard the smallest sound.  His eyes snapped open and his breath caught in his throat, fervent hope swelling within him.


	22. We're Not Broken, Just Bent

    John listened intently, convinced that his mind was playing tricks on him.  He thought he had heard the door downstairs open.  Shutting his eyes, he let his hearing have all the focus.  

    Again, he heard something.

_The door closing?_

    Soft footsteps were far away, but getting closer.  

_I’ve left the door to our flat open_ , John remembered.   _Anyone could just walk in._

    The footsteps sounded painfully familiar.   _Maybe I’m dreaming._  John bit his lip until he tasted blood.

_No, I’m awake._

    Silence stretched again.  It turned out to be the calm before the storm as suddenly a loud crash reverberated off the walls, reaching John’s ears from the floor below.  

_Someone is definitely here.  And that’s not Mrs. Hudson._

    John sat up without making a sound.  Not that it would have mattered.  The clattering downstairs would have easily drowned out stomping.  

    He could hear the dull thud of books being thrown about, then a few seconds of quiet before the high pitch of glass shattering.  

_What is going on?_

    John opened his door slowly, peering outside.  He couldn’t see anything so he gradually moved down the stairs, crouching as he went.  

    A loud, guttural cry of anguish reached John and his heart stopped.

_Sherlock.  It is you._

    John’s legs gave out and he sat heavily on the step, pressing his hand firmly against his mouth to stop himself from yelling out.  

    He waited impatiently for the mayhem to die down before he chanced moving again.  Step by step he slid down the stairs, careful not to make a sound.

    John saw Sherlock pace quickly past the door, moaning incoherently with his hands in his hair.  He still had his coat on.

    John stood and made his way to the door, watching Sherlock unnoticed.  

_He’s okay.  Thank God._

    John took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he watched Sherlock collapse into his chair.  Sherlock dropped his head into his hands and huffed loudly.

    John stepped into the room, needing to be closer to Sherlock.  He tried to speak, but couldn’t find his voice.

    Miraculously, Sherlock still hadn’t seen him.  John stood perfectly still, half wanting to find somewhere to hide where he would never be detected.  From across the room, Sherlock miserably moaned, “John.  John, I’m so sorry.”

    John swallowed and found his voice.  Clinging on to his pain and anger like a liferaft, he snapped, “Then why did you leave?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up.  His hair was wild and his eyes were red.  

    “John!” Sherlock choked, his voice catching in his throat.  He jumped to his feet and exclaimed, with a faintly jubilant smile, “John, I thought you were gone.  Your things…”

    “No,” John interrupted, his jaw clenching painfully.  “Sher--, no.”  John’s body snapped to attention and he leaned his head back to try and stop his tears from falling from the wells in his eyes.  With a jab of his hand, he turned his attention back to Sherlock and shouted, “You left me!  Or do you not remember?  God, what are you on right now?  You look terrible.  Is it heroin?  Cocaine?  PCP?”

    Sherlock sputtered, the smile long gone from his face.  “I haven’t taken anything, John,” he said, holding his arms open wide.

    John gestured wildly.  He felt like someone else was controlling him entirely.  “And what?  I’m supposed to believe you?  How can I trust you when all you do is lie, Sherlock?”  John turned around, unable to even look at him anymore.  With a pained chuckle he added, “You always have been an excellent liar.”

    The room was silent for several seconds.  Several agonisingly slow moments.  John closed his eyes, but tears broke through and ran down his cheeks.   _He’s not even going to try and change my opinion.  Which means I’m right._  He had never felt so betrayed in all his life.

    Somewhere behind him, Sherlock spoke in a clear voice.  “John, you of all people…  I swear.  I am clean.”

    John spun around slowly.  He wanted to believe Sherlock so badly that it physically hurt, like his ribcage was being crushed.

    Sherlock took his change in direction as encouragement and kept going.  “John, you deserve the truth, though I don’t deserve for you to listen to me.  But please.”

    John averted his eyes to the floor and rested his hands on his hips.  Sherlock licked his lip nervously and continued.  “You are right, John.  I did leave you.  But for a good reason.”

    John felt a wave of nausea at Sherlock confirming his worst fears out loud.  He wiped his face quickly and cleared his throat.   He squinted at Sherlock and puckered his lips, afraid to say anything, as he might burst into tears.

    Sherlock waved a hand between them and said, “John, I’m not good for you.  In any capacity.  That’s the truth.  I _do_ lie.   Often, and remarkably well.  I manipulate people to get what I want.  I’m selfish.  I’m pig-headed.  I’m rude.  I have several skeletons in my closet, only some of which you know about.  And I don’t deserve to even be around you.”

    John opened his mouth weakly as if to protest, but Sherlock silenced him with a stern look and another wave of his arm.  

    “Let me finish.”

    John took a step back and paused before nodding and sitting himself down on their sofa.

    Sherlock stared intently into John’s eyes and slowly moved forward as he said, “John, I lied to you.  I manipulated you into joining me on this case, and I nearly got you killed.  Again.  I was selfish.  I wanted you to be mine, even under false circumstances, even if only for a few days.  I ignored how this might affect you.  I just…” Sherlock’s voice broke.  “I just wanted you, consequences be damned.”

    Sherlock paced the floor, his coat swirling around him with every sharp turn.  

    “So I tried to leave you.  To give you an easy break.  But I can’t bear to be away from you.  I came back and saw that some of your things were gone, and I thought you had taken the chance and left for good.  At Bart’s--”

    “At Bart’s?” John blurted, unable to hold his tongue any longer.  “Oh, God.  Molly...Molly tried to tell me.  You son of a bitch, you were hiding in the body bag, weren’t you?”

    Sherlock stopped pacing long enough to interject, “As usual, you see but you do not observe.”

    “Unbelievable!” John shouted, furious again.  “I ran all over London looking for you.  Making myself sick.  And you were there the whole time?”

    Sherlock moved quickly to sit next to John on the sofa.  He grabbed John’s hands but John pulled away, scooting into the corner and shaking his head.

    Quietly, Sherlock tried to soothe him.  “I am truly sorry, John.  I will understand if you never want to see me again.  I foolishly thought I could be fine pretending you were mine for a few days.  But I know now that I can’t go back to living the way we were. For a while, I thought...nevermind what I thought.  I’m sorry.  I never meant for this to happen.”

    Sherlock dropped his head into his hands again.  In spite of himself, John desperately wanted to rush to Sherlock and comfort him.  John then realised that he had been silently crying.

_He always makes my world so topsy-turvy._

    John began to laugh, feeling like something inside of him had snapped.  At the sound of laughter, Sherlock turned to watch John, more than perplexed.

    John wiped at his own tears while his laughter gradually died down.  

    “You really are an idiot,” he said.

    Sherlock stood up slowly.  Dejectedly, he murmured, “I’ll be out by morning.”

    John grabbed Sherlock’s arm, frantic, and pulled him to a sitting position.  Looking down, he saw that he was holding Sherlock’s hand.  Swallowing, he said slowly, “How do you think I feel about you, Sherlock?”

    Sherlock was quiet until John finally met his eyes.  Carefully, he replied, “I don’t know anymore, John.  We were friends.  Then this case happened, and I thought that maybe...but that woman at The Palace.”

    “That didn’t matter,” John tried to interrupt, but Sherlock kept going, feverishly.  

    “I know you are sexually attracted to the female anatomy.  I just...wanted you.”

    Sherlock stopped speaking, pulling his hand from John’s grasp with harsh finality.  John took a deep, steadying breath, trying to find the right words.

    “I dated women, yes,” he began awkwardly.  “But I _live_ with you.  Meaning, my life is with you, Sherlock.  I have meals with you, when I can get you to eat.  I talk with you.  I argue with you.  I rely on you and I protect you.”

    Sherlock turned away and John reached out.  “Sherlock, it’s more than that.  Sometimes...oftentimes...I think that I live _for_ you.  You’ve become the most important, and the most dear person, in my life.  I’ll never meet anyone like you, and I don’t want to.  What I’m trying to say is, Sherlock, I lo--”

    “Don’t say it,” Sherlock hissed, cutting the string to John’s balloon confession.  

    John looked at the floor, not able to continue.

    Sherlock took a deep breath and looked at him.  “John, I can’t...I can’t hear you say it aloud.  I can’t bear that right now.  I don’t deserve to hear it.”

    With visible effort, John turned to face the man who had repeatedly crushed his heart.  Despite the pain he felt, John was also overwhelmed with tenderness.  

_I love him.  He’s an arse, but I love him.  He loves me too.  I’m almost sure of it.  He’s just being impossible.  I’ll give him one last chance.  I have to.  For my own sake._

    John reached out and cupped Sherlock’s face.  Sherlock’s brow furrowed as if he was in pain and he struggled to meet John’s gaze.  “Well then,” John said.  “I’ll just have to say it when you’re not listening.”

    And with that he crushed his mouth to Sherlock’s full lips, tasting the salt and tasting the pain.  After a moment, Sherlock’s hands found purchase on John’s shirt and he pulled him closer.  They broke for air and Sherlock watched his doctor through heavy lids.  Sherlock shook himself a little and put space between them.

    “No, John.  I can’t.  I was awful to you.”

    John pulled him close again, murmuring, “Sherlock, stop.  You’re overthinking things again.  You were the one who said this case wouldn’t affect our current arrangements, and I didn’t want that to happen either.  I can’t imagine life without you, you berk.  But I refuse to sleep alone anymore.”

    Sherlock’s face morphed into the special expression usually reserved for when Anderson was speaking and he squeaked, “ _That?_  I meant that I didn’t want you to move out.  Which is what I thought you did, anyway.”

    John took a moment to digest, before deciding that a moment was too long.  He didn’t want to think anymore.  He wanted to be with Sherlock.  They could figure out the details in the morning.  Reaching out, he thrust his arms into the grey woolen coat that he loved so much, because of who it contained, and wrapped them around Sherlock’s torso, pulling Sherlock on top of him as he lay back onto the sofa.  

    Sherlock was momentarily thrown off-balance, but he recovered quickly.  Briefly, he adjusted his position so that he was not crushing John in any way.  Then, with defeating hesitation, he leaned down to kiss John.  The kiss was less passionate, but beautiful nonetheless.  When he pulled away, John read the fear still lingering in his eyes.  Gently, John brushed a hand over Sherlock’s face and through his hair.  He smiled sweetly and Sherlock closed his eyes as John pulled him in to kiss his exposed temple.  Sherlock sighed and John felt him melting beneath his touches.  Then Sherlock kissed him again, a spark lighting a torch, and John responded in kind.  They kissed until their lips were sore and they both fell asleep from exhaustion.  

    Mrs. Hudson found them the next morning, Mycroft having just delivered her home after sending her away on a surprise extended holiday.  She tutted at the insane disarray of the room before smiling at the two of them, asleep on the sofa under Sherlock’s coat, arms wrapped tightly around one another.  She covered them with another blanket before closing the door gently and heading back to her own flat.  

    “Finally.  I was beginning to worry about those boys,” she said to herself as she sneaked downstairs to make tea.  The sun rose to a new world of uncertainty, but also full of hope.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter left!  
> I'm so excited for the conclusion.   
> Would anyone be interested in Director's Notes?


	23. Epilogue: The Stitches That We Made Are the Best I've Ever Sewn

_(6 Months Later)_

 

    John awoke in his bed, momentarily disoriented.  He lay on his back with one arm folded behind his head and the other thrown over his stomach.  Warmly pressed into John’s side was Sherlock’s back.  The detective was curled nearly in the foetal position, with one foot pressed against the side of John’s leg and the other in front of him.  One hand was tucked under a sharp cheekbone while the other lay outstretched.  Though it was hot, John pressed closer.  Sherlock stirred, but did not wake, his breath even and deep.  John gently pressed a kiss to the nape of his lover’s neck and leaned up to look at the sleeping man.  Sherlock looked peaceful, almost happy.  

_Good_ , John thought.   _He was exhausted._

    They had been working a case for three days straight and Sherlock hadn’t napped once, despite John’s insisting.  Once it was over, they had climbed into John’s bed and Sherlock had fought, but had eventually given in to sleep.  

    John pressed his lips into the dark curls matted to Sherlock’s forehead and murmured, “I love you, you idiot,” as he stroked Sherlock’s side.  Sherlock twitched a little, and John’s eyes were drawn to the mobile in Sherlock’s open palm.  Reaching out, John scooped up the phone and looked at the screen.  

_He fell asleep whilst texting.  Again.  Git._

    John squinted, sleep still blurring his vision slightly as he read the message.  

 

Lestrade we need to get the kacj dms dk johhhn    -SH

 

    A smile lifted the corner of John’s mouth sharply.  He set the phone aside and leaned down to wake Sherlock with a kiss, remembering what Sherlock had said to him the week before, during one of their barely-awake, late night chats.  

_“Your name pulses as steady as a heartbeat in my thoughts.”_

    John had shyly shrugged off the comment at the time, it being much too romantic for Sherlock’s typical conversation topics.  

    John thought about how much they had changed and grown over the last few months together.  Sherlock had opened up to him, and John had eagerly shared his heart.  They still had disagreements, and they were still figuring things out.  But they had each other, and to them, that was all that mattered.  

    The rings had remained on the mantel.  Neither of them had spoken about this, but John hoped that they would prove useful in the future.  John still wasn’t allowed to tell Sherlock aloud that he loved him, so he either worded things differently or said it when Sherlock couldn’t hear him, and therefore could make no complaint.

    More than telling him, John loved to show him.  He kissed him every chance he could take.  He held him close.  He brushed hair out of his face.  He made sure he ate and slept.  He listened to him.  At night, he made sure that Sherlock was never, ever alone.

    John leaned in again and kissed Sherlock, waking him fully.  

    Sherlock rubbed his eyes and John smiled at him, adoration pouring from every skin cell.  Sherlock rolled over onto his back and John climbed on top of him.  Sherlock smiled lazily as John began kissing down his naked torso.  

    “Well, good morning,” Sherlock said cheerfully, threading his fingers through John’s hair and guiding him gently down.  John fanned kisses but moved quickly to his final destination between Sherlock’s legs.  Looking back up at his love, John quickly pulled Sherlock’s pants off, lifting so Sherlock’s long legs were momentarily above John’s head.  Looking down, John was pleased to see that he and Sherlock weren’t the only ones awake.  John licked his lips and took Sherlock fully in hand, stroking gently.  Sherlock responded and was fully hard almost immediately.  

    John kissed the underside of his tumescence and Sherlock’s hands snapped back to clutch at his pillow.  He hissed audibly when John lashed out his tongue roughly.  John toyed with him a little, taking Sherlock to the line but not letting him cross it.  Taunting him further, John stopped his ministrations to plant gentle kisses to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh.  

    Sherlock squirmed in irritation and desire, his throat making sweet little whimpering noises that John wanted as his ringtone.  Having mercy, John moved back to take Sherlock fully in his mouth.  The air left Sherlock’s lungs and he began to pant.  John placed a palm against Sherlock’s abdomen to steady himself and felt Sherlock’s muscles roil as they contracted and released in waves.  

    They had been in this position over a dozen times since John had finally managed to convince Sherlock that it was something that he actually wanted to do.  This time was just as exciting for John as their first had been.  He had pieced together little details of what Sherlock liked and he worked to use all of his knowledge to reach their full potential.

    John quickened his pace, using his hands and mouth expertly to draw Sherlock out.  Sherlock’s chest rose and fell quickly as he moved in and out of John’s mouth with perfect rhythm.  With one last thrust, Sherlock went still and cried out as he filled John’s mouth.  John swallowed him quickly and used his hand to wipe his lips.  

    With weakened arms Sherlock pulled John roughly up on top of his chest where he kissed him.  John buried his fingers in Sherlock’s mussed curls and kissed him with all he had.  Sherlock stroked John’s thigh and sat up with John still atop him.  Carefully, Sherlock rolled them over and lay back down, half on top of John.  Resting his chin on John’s good shoulder, Sherlock ran his fingers down John’s chest as he threw his lanky leg over John’s thigh.  John had one arm around Sherlock’s back and the other one behind his own head.  

    “Do you know what I want you to do to me later, John Hamish Watson?”

    A chill of pleasure ran through John at Sherlock using his full name.  Sherlock’s hand was dangerously close to John’s aching desire and he was dying from the anticipation.  

    “What should I do to you?”

    Sherlock leaned closer, breathing into John’s neck as he said, “Later, I want you to pleasure me.”  
John gave a start, sputtering, “What the bloody hell do you call what I just did?  Was that not good?”

    He felt more than heard Sherlock laugh against his skin.  “It was great,” Sherlock said.  “And later, I want to feel this,” Sherlock paused to squeeze John’s arousal through the thin fabric of his shorts, “inside of me.”

    John gave a shuddering breath and instinctively pulled Sherlock closer to him.  Eyelids fluttering, he struggled to maintain at least some brain function.  “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

    “Yes, John.  I want to share all of myself with you.  And I am selfish, I’ve told you that.  I want all of you.  And I do mean... _all_...of you.”

    John closed his eyes and thrust against Sherlock’s palm, imagining it.  There were so many possibilities, and he wanted to try them all.  He wanted to be sitting in Sherlock’s armchair while the detective blissfully lowered his lithe body onto him.  He wanted to stand behind Sherlock in the shower as he leaned forward with fingers splayed across the wet tiles.  He wanted his chest pressed against Sherlock’s back with Sherlock’s front pressed into the mattress as he slowly grinded into him.  He wanted Sherlock’s legs wrapped around his lower back as he pumped into him, his fingers hooked into Sherlock gaping mouth.  John wanted all of those things and more.  

    With unequaled dexterity, Sherlock slipped his hand into John’s shorts and palmed his soft but turgid skin.  John moaned with desire.  

    With more wickedness than any villain, Sherlock groaned pleadingly into John’s ear, “Will you, John?  Will you let me wrap myself around you?”

    John sighed and it turned into a whimper.  “Yes, God, yes.”

    Sherlock licked his neck and John threw his head back.  “Oh, fuck, Sherlock.”

    Sherlock laughed and John felt the rumble pass from Sherlock’s skin to his own.  

    Lust and romance battled and mingled within John as his body burned while his mind waxed poetic.

_We were made from the same stardust, separated in the universe to be reunited on earth.  We can never be apart, for we are the same.  He is me and I am him._

    John often had moments like that of what he liked to call “clarity”, where he knew beyond any doubt that they were meant to be together for the rest of their lives.  True, they often happened during moments of intense sexual pleasure, but to John that was beside the point.  

    Sherlock removed his hand from John to lick it before returning it to its task.  Pre-cum added to the saliva, and though it was still a bit too much friction, John was past all point of complaint.  Sherlock pressed and squeezed with expert precision, thumbing over the tip of John’s erection at just the right moments.  John’s head swam and he thought he was going to black out.  

    Sherlock quickened the movement of his hand, pumping wildly while he propped himself up on his other hand.  He smiled as he watched John’s face, strained in pre-orgasmic tension.  Sherlock pressed kisses against the stubble on John’s cheek before moving to John's lips.  Cleverly, Sherlock thrust his tongue into John’s mouth just as he came, body shuddering and unclenching.  

    John relaxed into the mattress and tried to catch his breath.  Sherlock wiped off his hand and pulled John into another kiss.  They wrapped their arms around one another and settled in for an early-morning, post-coital doze.  With one last expenditure of effort, John kissed Sherlock’s temple, reaching up to wrap his hands around Sherlock’s face.  He pressed his palms against Sherlock’s ears, blocking out all sound as he looked him in the eyes and said, “Sherlock, I love you.”

    Sherlock’s expression remained vacant for a moment before a slow smile made its way across his face.  John wrapped his arms around his love again.  Sherlock snuggled in close and breathed against John’s chest, “I know.  I love you, too, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> I will be working on Director's Notes that I will post separately if anyone is interested.  
> Hopefully they will be posted next week!  
> I cannot say thank you enough to Chucksauce for all of her help. She is amazing and more importantly, she is an excellent friend. She really helped my motivation and self-esteem.  
> And of course, I am already working on another story!  
> So thank you for indulging me in what I love.  
> <3


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